The Interview
by Turrislucidus
Summary: A slight alternate universe story in which Terence returns from his travels, (Terence? Who the heck is Terence? ...Oh sure, he's that boy who was dressed as the pirate in the Halloween flash-back), Willy Wonka retrieves an undiscovered Golden Ticket, and Charlie Bucket meets a Chocolatier. The 'delight' is in the details.
1. The Return

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps educational, gentle parody, entertaining._

* * *

Adventures? Or drifting? They were one, or the other - the things Terence had spent his life doing - depending on your point of view. Terence liked the first word. But he knew most other people would use the second word. His nomadic lifestyle didn't lend itself to accumulating material possessions, most people's measure of success, so to them, he'd been a drifter. Terence didn't care; he knew there's no telling what's going on below the surface, if you think the surface is all that's there. Terence had lived for the sake of experiences, and they, like a sunrise or sunset, were glorious in the unfolding, but, when over, left nothing behind except a memory.

Rich in memories, Terence didn't regret a day of it. He had been all over the world, tried his hand at all sorts of things, and occasionally, made very good money discovering the things, for interested parties, that are easily discoverable when no one bothers to give you a second glance. Terence wired that money to an investment account he rarely touched. Over the decades, the value of that account had grown, till now, Terence need never work again.

Perhaps it was that unseen accumulated wealth that tipped the scale. One day, Terence woke up, looked around, and decided he'd had enough. He was getting too old to enjoy the easy to get, but physical jobs that had been his passport to the globe, and as for that other endeavor, the lucrative one, the black and white of it, so clear to him in his youth, had turned by now to a murky gray. It had been a wonderful life, but it was time to quit.

Quit and do what? Terence hadn't the slightest notion what he wanted to do instead. He wasn't even sure where he wanted to go. The nomadic life had come to Terence naturally. He had constantly moved from place to place, even as a child. At first, it had been because of his father's profession. His father had made the military his career, and moving was part of the job description.

But when the military had listed his father as Missing-In-Action, it had gotten much worse. Outwardly, his mother had taken the news stoically. The rational part of her understood the situation, and when people tried to help her, she was always ready with the answer they wanted to hear. But her heart wouldn't let her rest. Terence didn't know if his mother was searching for a better life, or for his father. He only knew she couldn't stop herself from making the next move, or taking the next journey. The result? The two of them were always pulling up stakes, almost as soon as they had put them down. For Terence, three months in one place was a treat.

Things had taken another bad turn in the year Terence was twenty. That was the year his mother had given up, quietly slipping away. Pneumonia was the cause of death listed, but Terence knew better. It didn't matter what the doctors wrote, his mother had died of exhaustion, and a broken heart. Finding himself on his own, Terence had continued the pattern. Sometimes he stayed in places longer than his mother had, half a year here, a year there, but it was the same life.

So on that certain morning, Terence was at a loss. At home anywhere in the world, he called no place home. The entire world lay before him, with everywhere in it as equal as the two roads in Robert Frost's poem. He had to narrow it down. What did he want? A complete change. An out-of-the-way, quiet place, would suit. Is quiet the same as dull? No, not necessarily. He'd look for somewhere interesting, too.

Mulling this over, Terence took to the streets. The sky had been overcast and gloomy, threatening rain, but Terence knew that walking about would help him think. With any luck, inspiration would be lurking just around the corner, and so it was. A dark-haired little girl, holding a bright red wrapper pulled down around a chocolate bar, caught his eye. It was a Wonka bar, and it was halfway around the world from the Factory that had made it. Specifically, it was a Nutty Crunch Surprise, and seeing it, Terence remembered the person he'd never been able to entirely forget, the person who had helped him with his reading, Willy Wonka the boy, all those years ago, when they had briefly gone to the same school together.

Terence reviewed his memories of that time. Yes, Willy Wonka was the very definition of quiet, but interesting. It's a place to start, anyway, Terence decided. _I'll find something to do there._

* * *

It had taken a little more than a month and a half to turn that thought into a deed. There had been no hurry; Terence had worked his way across the globe, as he always had. Deciding to splurge on the last leg of the journey, Terence bought a ticket for the train. As his destination neared, he wondered if it would be hard to find Willy's Factory. The train pulled into the station in the dappled early afternoon sunlight, and as it did, Terence saw the joke with a rueful smile. It would be impossible _not_ to find Willy's Factory. It stood atop the hill in the center of town, like a castle...or a fortress.

Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, Terence walked up the hill to take a look. The Factory was both immense and beautiful. _Impressive, _he thought, and he also thought of still waters, running deep._  
_

High masonry walls surrounded the Factory, with the tempered steel gates at the entrance closed. Aside from the smoke rising languidly from the stacks, Terence didn't see any activity around the Factory. He noticed the people passing by took more of an interest in him than they did in the Factory, and he concluded that the Factory was like this all the time. The place sure smelled good. But it was definitely a fortress. Before he turned away, Terence placed his hands on the bars of the central gate and gave them a gentle tug. As he did, he found himself reminded of the braces.

Making his way to a nearby pub, Terence settled himself down to hear the sad story. He knew that was the only kind of story it could be. Back in the day, it might have been fair to say that Willy preferred his own company, but he hadn't been unfriendly.

Terence had discovered early in life that his affable personality and easy-going nature put people at ease. The balance he struck between getting _a_long without actually having to _be_long was a rare gift, and a blessing. It was his biggest asset and had made the life he had led possible. It didn't fail him now. In no time at all, the locals had filled him in on the goings on since he had left, all those years ago, vis-à-vis Willy Wonka, his Chocolate Factory, and this town.

It was a happy, sad, strange story. The happy part was the promising beginning on Cherry Street, an exciting new Factory, and a robust economy for the entire town. The sad part was a work force sprinkled with spies and thieves, and the resulting betrayal — the Factory closed, and people put out of work. The strange part was what was going on now. The Factory had re-opened with a mysterious work force, while the Factory's owner had made himself equally mysterious by remaining unseen by the townspeople for over a decade.

Terence thanked the storytellers and retreated to a table by himself with a local newspaper and another pint. _Willy unseen for a decade,_ he thought. _I would describe that as Willy, seriously annoyed._ He spread the newspaper out on the table in front of him, thinking as he did so that the sad part of the story was sadly, no surprise.

Terence had known Willy Wonka as a voracious reader. The worlds of fantasy and science-fiction had been high on his list. Willy had liked the ideals of the one, and the inventions of the other. Willy had pretty much lived in the places he read about; places like Camelot, and Narnia, and Middle Earth; in galaxies where space travel was commonplace. Terence didn't blame him, aspects of Willy's reality had been pretty bleak. But in those worlds, friendships were true, integrity prized, and loyalty priceless. In this world, without adequate defenses, a person holding dear those ideals would soon be torn apart. Apparently, Willy hadn't had the defenses he'd needed, and nearly had been. _A sorry reflection on this world, _Terence thought, setting aside his cynicism for a moment.

Terence opened the paper to the classifieds and ran his finger down the 'Businesses for Sale' column. Terence didn't find the strange part of the story all that strange, either. Willy Wonka was nothing if not resilient, and resourceful_. You don't have to go any further than surviving those braces to know that_, he thought. But while Terence was very happy that Willy had found a way to put himself back in business, and with such success, it couldn't be good that Willy never left the factory.

Terence sat back in his chair, the pint in his hand, unable to get the braces out of his mind. Dr. Wonka had designed what he called 'braces' for his son, Willy, and that's what they were. But most of the metal apparatus had been external and cumbersome, made of thin rods and wires that entirely surrounded the wearer's head. When Terence had seen them for the first time, his immediate thought had been, _that kid lives behind bars. _Later, Terence saw them as Dr. Wonka's attempt to put his son's mind in a cage. Terence had kept that thought to himself. If it was true now that Willy never left the factory, then really, not much had changed; he was still living behind bars, his mind still in a cage. _Is it any better if the cage is of his own making? _Terence didn't know the answer to that question.

Frowning, Terence returned the half-finished pint to the table, attending to the column underneath his finger. His luck was holding, and Terence found something that sounded promising, almost immediately. When things fell into place like this, it was usually a sign that you were on the right track, and he found that comforting. The owner of this particular business was retiring, probably to some warmer clime, and evidently wanted a quick sale. The price he had put on his business seemed a perfectly reasonable one. Signaling the waitress, Terence paid his tab, folded the newspaper, picked up his duffel bag, and headed for the address given in the advertisement.

Terence found he didn't have far to go. The address was just a hop, skip, and a jump farther down the hill. It pleased him to see it was so close to the Factory, and, at first glance, it seemed ideal. It was a small shop that sold mostly newspapers and magazines with some sundries thrown in for good measure. He sat down on a bench on the sidewalk and pulled a book out of his duffel. He spent the rest of the afternoon watching the foot traffic into and out of the shop. What he saw was what he had hoped to see. One person could handle the clientele easily. There were plenty of slow times when he would have time to himself, but there was more than enough traffic to keep body and soul together. The icing on top was that the little shop came with its own apartment over it.

At closing time, Terence gathered his belongings, walked into the shop, and offered the owner his asking price. The owner agreed at once, they shook hands, and the shop was his.

Well, not quite his. There remained the pesky details. Things like contracts, title searches, all the things that Terence had spent his life avoiding. These things took time, and this time, they would take until the end of the week. Terence smiled. It was a short time really, made possible by a cash sale, with the papers largely in order from a sale set to close two weeks ago, that had fallen through; more evidence he was on the right track.

Terence found himself with time on his hands. Having spent the night at a hostel, he returned to his shop-to-be the next morning for some on-the-job training. The retiring owner, Bill, was only too happy to oblige. Discovering Terence was new in town, Bill even went so far as to offer him the use of the guest bedroom in the apartment. It took Terence only a moment to move in.

With the situation at the store on track, and living arrangements sorted, Terence decided to fill the remaining time by doing some poking around. He discovered there was no telephone listing for the Chocolate Factory. That didn't surprise him. Willy had always expected people to make an effort. He called the Business Council and wasn't surprised to discover they _did_ have a listing. He called the number, but neither person or machine picked up. Well, if it were easy, everyone would do it. Terence shrugged, and let it slide.

Further investigation revealed that the Factory had a web site, which included an email contact option. Willy might be out of sight, but he wasn't necessarily out of touch. Terence availed himself of the option and sent an email detailing his arrival, his plans, and sending his regards. He hit the send button and sat back, deciding that was enough poking in that direction.

The week passed quickly, with the papers signed on schedule. Bill's wife had gone on ahead with nearly all the furniture to set up their retirement home, so, in no time at all, Bill had his few remaining belongings packed, and was ready to go. With a wave, he set off to join her. Terence answered the wave with one of his own, and watched Bill go. Turning back to the shop, he glanced up at the Chocolate Factory. The smoke curled silently toward the heavens.

* * *

On Saturday, curiosity was beginning to get the better of him, and Terence decided to pay a visit to Dr. Wonka. It would be stretching the truth to say Terence was looking forward to the visit. He remembered Dr. Wonka as a very dour fellow, kind of scary, really. But he had been a child then, seeing things through a child's eyes. As an adult, he felt sure his impression of Dr. Wonka wouldn't be the same, and the visit might prove helpful.

The visit was a good thought, but on this particular morning, Dr. Wonka proved as elusive as his son to track down by phone. Terence decided to take a chance, and walk over anyway. He made his way through the brisk fall air, enjoying the bright sunshine, and soon found himself on the old, familiar street. He walked to the center of the block, only to find himself dumbfounded to see a vacant lot where the Wonka house had once stood. Terence froze on the spot. The absent building had torn a hole in the heart of the block.

Taking a few minutes to recover from his initial shock, Terence strolled slowly toward the lot, as if the slowness of his pace would give the building a chance to re-appear in its proper place. It didn't though, and Terence made a tour of the lot. It was very well-kept. Someone had leveled the ground and seeded it with grass. The grass looked healthy and was neatly mowed. An attractive mix of evergreen and flowering bushes dotted the edges, some late Fall blooms still present. Terence decided the houses on either side must consider it a park, or at least a green space. He walked up to one of the houses and knocked on the door. A young woman opened it. When questioned, she told him she had no idea how long the lot had been vacant, as she had moved in only a year ago. It had been vacant then. Terence asked if she knew of anyone who might know more. The woman pointed to one of the houses across the street.

Crossing the street, Terence walked over to the house the woman had pointed out and knocked on that door. An elderly gentleman answered. When he heard Terence was curious about the lot, he invited him in. "Strangest thing it was," the gentleman said when they were both settled with mugs of tea. "There it was, and then, in the blink of an eye, there it wasn't."

"Was there a fire?" asked Terence.

"No, nothing like that at all. It was just gone, as I said. I can't tell you how they did it, I was at work. The house was there in the morning and it was gone in the evening."

Terence didn't know what to say, but it didn't matter because the gentleman kept right on talking.

"It was beastly, really. The house was gone but the boy was left." The old gentleman sounded indignant, as if it had just happened yesterday.

"When did this happen?" Terence asked. The old gentleman told him, and Terence realized it must have been just a few weeks after he and his mother had made the next of their many moves, in late November, all those years ago. Come to think of it, Terence remembered, Willy had discovered candy that Halloween. "What happened to the boy?" he asked.

"I don't know what happened to him then," came the reply. "He disappeared. I don't know where he went or what he did. He was gone for years. But he's back now."

"He is?"

"Sure. He's Willy Wonka. He owns the Factory on the hill."

"He certainly does," nodded Terence. "What about his father? Is he still around?"

The gentleman made a sound of disgust in his throat, nodding his head. "Oh yes, that one never left. He moved the house out into the boondocks and he's still in it, far away from here." That state of affairs seemed to satisfy the old man enormously.

"I'm surprised the lot is still vacant."

The old man tilted his head back, and considered the question. "Me too, now that you mention it. A landscape company came in about ten years ago and made it look the way it does now. They keep it maintained."

"It looks very nice. Who owns it?"

"I have no idea," came the reply.

Terence had an idea. He thanked the gentleman for the information and the tea, and took his leave.

Once outside, Terence found the sunshine as bright and warming as ever, but his heart was cold. There was nothing Dr. Wonka could say now that Terence wanted to hear. The lot and its implications were appalling. For the first time since he had returned to town, Terence began to doubt that he'd hear from Willy Wonka. What was the point of inviting people into your life if they were just going to leave you, or betray you?

The days passed, and Terence satisfied his curiosity about the lot. A check at the Land Registry Office, and a tangle of holding companies later, it came as no surprise to him that Willy Wonka did, in fact, own it. That void wouldn't be filled unless Willy Wonka allowed it.

More days passed, and Terence found that he was right about his doubts. There was no word from the Factory.

Still more days passed, and Terence found that he was also wrong. On the day he had chosen for his 'Grand Opening', Willy Wonka sent a parcel containing a large assortment of chocolate bars, along with a display stand for the counter. Terence had smiled to himself when he saw the display stand. _Willy thinks of everything_. With the parcel was a short, hand written, congratulatory note, with the explanation that the chocolate bars might be a nice sideline. After reading it, Terence held the note with a feeling of great satisfaction. The chocolate _would_ make a nice sideline, but more importantly, it would make an open line between his shop and the Factory. He sent a short, but chatty, thank you note back by return post.

Life slipped into a routine. Terence had gotten what he'd asked for. Things were quiet, but interesting.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. The Hour Before Dawn

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_**SereneHalcyon**: Thanks for your comments and feedback. They are much appreciated.  
_

_**dionne dance**: Thanks for your encouragement._

* * *

A little less than a month later, things got a little less quiet and a lot more interesting. Willy Wonka announced a contest. Five lucky children, the finders of five Golden Tickets, hidden in Wonka chocolate bars, would be given a tour of the Factory by none other than Mr. Willy Wonka himself.

Terence read the announcement and found the entire concept amusing. The love of candy was about all Willy Wonka had in common with children; there was no doubt something more going on here.

The commotion generated by the contest was astounding. The Golden Tickets sparked a veritable gold rush for Wonka bars, and the gold came pouring in, even if it was in the form of paper money. Terence enjoyed the bonanza along with every other vendor of Wonka bars worldwide, but what delighted him more was that the increased sales meant an excuse for increased notes sent back to the Factory. After the 'Opening Day' gift, Willy had continued to send over cases of Wonka bars regularly. The cases never contained an invoice, but Terence answered every delivery with a check and a note. So far, Willy had responded to none of the notes, and he had cashed none of the checks.

The first Golden Ticket was found, and it revealed the date of the tour as February First.

On February First things were positively buzzing. 'Interesting' was easily eclipsed by 'fascinating'. Only four Golden Tickets had been found. There was intense speculation that the tour would be canceled, but despite the missing ticket, the tour proceeded as planned.

Terence hadn't joined the crowds at the factory. Crowds bothered him, so he saw none of the spectacle. That evening the local news reported that the children had left the factory, each a little the worse for wear for their visit, but each with the lifetime supply of candy Mr. Wonka had promised them.

Later that night, and for the next two days, the town found itself blanketed by a new scent from the Factory. It was the odor of burning chocolate, and it wasn't pleasant. There could be no doubt in anyone's mind that the Factory was a little the worse for wear for the children's visit, as well.

In the days that followed, along with a flurry of new snow, there was a flurry of overwrought newspaper accounts of the tour, given by some of the participants. A few of these Terence read, finding them too one-sided to tell him much. Mr. Willy Wonka's only comment had been "no comment".

Despite all the upheaval, the town settled back into its usual routine surprisingly quickly. So did Terence, and so did the Chocolate Factory.

* * *

Days later, high up in the Factory, the covers felt delicious, and so did the sleep. It was a balm that he knew wouldn't last, but he savored it all the same, as this last, lucid dream drew to a close. He stirred and the duvet moved soundlessly, black against the deep violet pillow cases. Fully conscience now, he kept his eyes closed, growing still once again, his breathing rhythmic and gentle.

When he opened his eyes he knew what he would see, so he kept them closed, making a game of the anticipation. What awaited was a column of light before him, and a cloud floating at his feet. The light would be luminous and diffuse. The cloud would be soft and ticklish. A smile touched his lips. That soft, ticklish cloud would be firm and substantial, as well. Around and above him, the air would dissolve into a blackness not as dark as the black of the duvet, but it would be enough. The details of the room would be shrouded in that darkness.

The game grew old. He drew up his knees and curled his spine, burying his face in the fold of the duvet. Ending the game, he lowered the duvet an inch with the fingers of his left hand, and opened one eye the barest sliver. There, beyond the foot of the bed was the column of light, and there below it, was a small part of the cloud.

Satisfied, he closed his eyes again, as the smallest of sighs escaped his lips.

He loved color, and this was the time of day he anticipated his choice. This time of day, just before dawn, when no single color reigned. In the light, however pale, were all the colors, and in the black of the spaces the light didn't penetrate, none of them.

He straightened his body and stretched beneath the covers with as little movement as possible, each muscle becoming a steel coil, held for a long moment before relaxing back to putty. It was time to get up.

He opened both eyes as he turned his head on the pillow to face the edge of the bed. He always slept in the very center, because you couldn't reach the center of the bed from the edges. The center was a lovely spot; an oasis. He lived on the edge; there was no point in sleeping there.

Getting to the center was easy. All you had to do was take a running leap and there you were, all comfy and cozy. Getting out presented more options, but none was as fun. He contemplated his next move. Tunnel, roll, or scooch over? Rolling sounded good, so that's what he did, the duvet rippling along with his progress.

Arriving at the edge, dark violet eyes flecked with indigo peered over at the carpet. The carpet was the cloud. It looked white, but in fact it was the palest of grey. White would have been too harsh. The vicuña robe lay like a puddle of black, next to the bed, floating on the cloud. It was exactly where he had dropped it.

The Factory was warm, but he keep this room cooler, as he was the only one ever in it. A duvet makes more sense in a cold room, but, on winter mornings such as this one, it meant facing a chilly interval between getting out of bed and donning the robe. Gritting his teeth, he sprang from the bed and scooped up the robe. In seconds his arms were above his head, with the pull-over robe slipping softly around his body. Anyone watching couldn't be blamed for thinking they had just seen a marble statue come alive, so pale was the form, but, of course, there was no one there.

The robe was almost immediately toasty warm. The silky feel of the soft wool against his skin was as glorious as always, and he felt a warm glow in his heart for the animal from which it came. The robe had a deep shawl collar that could act as a short cape, or a hood. Having a choice was always choice in his view, and today he choose to leave the collar around his shoulders. The long raglan sleeves extended to palms of his hands, and the robe itself had enough length to drape for a few inches on the carpet.

He made his way across the deep pile carpet, toward the bank of windows that was the column of light. The carpet tickled his bare feet as it always did, with each footfall sinking deeply into the plush padding. If you could walk on a cloud, this is what it would be like, so that is how he thought of it. But he was very glad it didn't _smell _like a cloud. Clouds smelled awful and he wrinkled his nose just thinking about it.

Arriving at the bank of windows, he discovered his first disappointment of the day. Blocks of frosted glass stacked together formed the floor to ceiling windows, and it was this that gave the column of light they allowed its diffuse quality. Interspersed among these blocks, at strategic heights and intervals, were transparent panes through which you could see.

Today, he could only see the inside of the real cloud that hovered directly outside. Dawn's evolving colors gave him inspiration, and it was rare indeed that he was not up to greet her. It was why this room, his room, was nearly entirely decorated with neutral lights and darks. He didn't want any conflicts with nature's display. But there wouldn't be any display today if this overcast didn't lift.

He retreated to the slightly oversized wing-backed chair to his left. Positioned just a few feet from the towering window, and facing it, it was the only chair in the room. Made of light grey, butter-soft leather, it had a small table beside it. Sinking into its cushions, he leaned back into the crook of the back of the chair and its wing. Drawing up his feet and tucking them underneath himself, he arranged the robe like a drape. Satisfied, he closed his eyes, and relaxed. The increasing light on his eyelids would mark the passing of time. While he waited, he would consider whatever it was that wanted to floated up from the depths of his mind.

He thought of bubbles. It wasn't long before the first one made its appearance. As he watched it lazily in his mind's eye, he knew it would be the Factory. He could tell from the size of the bubble, and when it burst revealing that word, he felt contented to know he'd been right. He smiled. The Factory was the love of his life, and she always wanted his attention. The tour had done some damage, but most of that had already been repaired, with the remainder of the work proceeding nicely. He'd made today's plan for the Factory last night, so all was well there. She needn't worry, and he waved her away.

The next bubble was small, and it was 'the tour'. The tour was over and that was the way he wanted that to stay. Asking his mind to stay tranquil, he pushed the bubble to the side. The tour had been awful.

Close on its heels was a slightly larger bubble. It popped, and when it did the words it revealed were, 'the boy'. The boy. The boy had been part of the inspiration for the tour idea. The boy used to stand outside the gates most mornings, but on the day before the tour he had stopped coming. Over a week had passed now, and he had still not returned. Had something happened to the boy? He realized he had no idea who this person was, but he missed seeing him. Perhaps the boy had moved. People did that. He shuddered, and opened his eyes.

The room was much lighter now, but the transparent panes of the windows still showed the inside of the cloud outside. It was looking more and more like he'd be on his own with his choices today. He looked toward the built-in armoires that lined both sides of the room, enjoying the horseshoe effect as, reaching the far corners, they curved gently to end just before reaching the tall headboard of his bed. Made of a dark mahogany, in a shade very much like the dark chocolate color of his own hair, each had double doors with oiled bronze handles. He had a lot of choices.

The effect of the symmetry of each armoire was very pleasing, but he enjoyed the array all the more because not all the doors opened to wardrobes. One set in the wall to his right lead to the vestibule, that lead to the stairs, that lead to the rest of his living quarters, and his office. One set in the wall behind him lead to a small kitchen. The curved areas in the far corners of the room were actually walk-in closet/dressing rooms, and the doors on either side of the head of his bed lead to an en suite bath. All the doors looked identical, but if you looked closely, you could see that they weren't. That amused him no end.

There was still a bit of time left. He snuggled more comfortably into the chair and closed his eyes once again, awaiting the next bubble. There it was, and its word was 'Terence'. Terence was back. He shifted in the chair a bit because he had a lot to consider here. He hadn't thought about his childhood in years. He'd taken a few steps with this, but mostly, he'd been letting it slide. Now it was time to decide what more, if anything, he wanted to do.

To date, Terence been back for one day longer than he'd lived here in the first place. Terence had managed to get the Oompa Loompas' immediate attention by putting his hands on the gates and giving them a shake. That had done it. A smile crept to his lips. Terence had always been unafraid, and funny, and clever. Judging by the notes he was sending, he still was. And Terence had been to see the lot. He must have gone to see...the dentist. But he'd seen the lot instead, and gone back home. The pale fingers of his right hand began to slowly twist his hair, as he thought, score one for Terence. Taking a few moments more, he replayed a few of the shared childhood scenes in his mind. Yes, there was no denying that Terence had been a bright spot.

He dropped his hand from his hair and opened his eyes. Having made his decision, he left the chair, crossed the room, opened the appropriate armoire, and reached for his plum colored frock coat.

* * *

_To be continued...__  
_


	3. The Hour At Dusk

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_November 23rd is a special, if sad, anniversary in this fandom, and to mark it I am posting this next chapter._

* * *

If the traffic in the shop was any indication, the folks in town had decided to spend today in hibernation. Terence didn't blame them. A low overcast, that partially engulfed the factory at the top of the hill, had persisted all day, threatening snow. The snow had held off, but it was a dreary day all the same.

So it was a bit surprising, as dusk was beginning to settle over the town, to hear the bells above the shop door jingle merrily. The unexpected sound made a feeble attempt to cut through the gloom, but failed. In swept a gust of very cold air followed closely by a black, silk top hat. At least, that's what it looked like to Terence from his current vantage point. Seated on the floor, at the back of the shop, a clipboard in his hand, he had inventory on his mind. Inventory, and now, a black, silk, top hat. Unusual. He rose to his feet to see more. Under the hat was a tall, slender man wearing a black, nubby textured great-coat that reached to his booted ankles. In one purple gloved hand he carried a walking stick, while his other gloved hand removed a pair of purple rimmed, goggle style sunglasses from his face. Terence hadn't seen his visitor for years, but he knew him immediately. Despite the changes, and Terence could see there were many, the eyes remained unmistakable.

"Willy!" he exclaimed happily. The sight had done what the sound could not; the day had just lost all its dreariness.

"Terence!" came the enthusiastic response, in the same high, flute-like voice Terence remembered so well.

The simple exchange told them both a lot about the state of the friendship. On the day Terence had introduced himself to Willy, he had told him that his friends called him 'Terence'. Willy had said nothing as he considered that he had never heard this newcomer called anything but 'Terry'. He had tilted his head and been impressed when Terence had addressed his unspoken thoughts. "It's a formal sounding name and folks prefer 'Terry'. I don't insist, but I mean what I say when I tell them what I just told you." Willy had nodded and said, carefully, because of the braces, "My friends call me Willy." It was Terence's turn to nod. He'd heard this boy-in-the-cage called a lot of things, the nicest of which was 'Wonka', and none of which were 'Willy'. Understanding each other, they had used the names without fail.

Without wasting any more time, Willy Wonka continued more softly, "If it's okay with you, I'd like to turn this over." He tilted his head slightly, standing otherwise motionless, as he waited for the verdict.

Terence looked, and could see that Willy held one corner of the 'Open/Closed' sign that was hanging on the door between two fingers. He was proposing to turn it to 'Closed'.

"Of course!" Terence replied. "You'd be saving me the trouble. It's been slow all day."

Willy turned the sign over.

"I am so delighted to see you...," began Terence, but Willy, now a nervous ball of energy, waved his hand in the air and quickly strode further into the shop, his eyes darting about intently, his walking stick held out like an antenna. Seeing the Wonka bar display among the clutter of newspapers and magazines that were the heart and soul of the shop's business, he headed that way.

"Delighted to see you, too", Willy interrupted, his eyes fixed on the display. "This delightful visit is to find a 'Delight' and I'll be very delighted when I find it." He paused, shooting a glance toward Terence, and added, "You have it."

"Then I'm delighted to know that I can delight you, but I don't know how you know I 'have it' or even what you're talking about."

Willy grinned with satisfaction. Terence had always been able to keep up, and after all these years he apparently hadn't lost the knack. Relaxing somewhat he said, "I know because I sent it to you. Specifically, the 'delight' is a Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight." Willy rocked back on his heels and looked at Terence expectantly.

"Ah. Well. Your search is over, then. That Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight on the display next to you is the only one left in the store. All you have to do is just reach out, and take it!"

Willy looked briefly down at the bar. "My search isn't over," he said, shaking his head. "I want the one with the fifth Golden Ticket in it. That's not it."

The words had an immediate effect on Terence. A look of astonishment crept over his face. His eyes became unfocused as he sank down on one of the two high stools he kept behind the counter. "The fifth Golden Ticket is in my shop?" he whispered. "Nobody found it! The tour was on the first! This is the tenth! The ticket isn't here!"

"My dear fellow," said Willy quickly, in a soothing voice, concerned by his childhood friend's unexpected and obviously distressed reaction. Leaning across the counter, he gave Terence's forearm an awkward pat. "It's quite alright. It is here. I'll find it, and then the entire hare-brained tour fiasco can sink into happy oblivion."

"But, how can you be sure it's here?" asked Terence again.

"Because I sent it to you. Do you remember that case of Fudgemallow Delights I had sent over to you last month by messenger?"

Terence nodded his head. He remembered it well. It had arrived as a single case.

"Well, that was it," Willy continued, observing the nod. "I wanted to give the locals a chance at a ticket and I figured you'd get a kick out of being the one to sell it."

"You got that right," said Terence, with a dejected sigh. "Just think of the publicity! But I didn't sell it, and here's the thing - I sold that entire case. No ticket."

"Here's the thing," echoed Willy, "You must have misplaced a box. It's here somewhere, and I'll find it."

With that, Willy took off for the far wall and began to open and rummage through all manner of doors and cabinets, peering into the shelves, poking about the stacks of paper and sundries, assisted by his cane.

Terence was still convinced it was a waste of time, he knew his shop pretty well, and didn't think he'd misplace a box of Fudgemallow bars, even in all the seeming clutter. But, after watching Willy in action for a few minutes, he decided he better get involved in the search before Willy took the place apart. Terence remembered Willy as staying 'under the radar' for the most part as a child, but he was certainly a bundle of energy now!

Terence moved to the back wall and worked toward Willy, searching diligently. They crossed paths, each now checking the work of the other.

"Willy?" Terence began, only to find himself cut short.

"Did you find it?" asked Willy excitedly.

"Ah, no, but, um, I was just wondering...," Terence started to say, only to find himself, again, cut short.

"No," said Willy definitively, peering into a cupboard.

"No, what?" asked Terence.

"You were about to ask me if I was going to cash any of those checks. The answer is 'no'. I like the notes." There was a pause, followed by a giggle. "They're very gossipy." Willy straightened up and turned to Terence. Smiling a bit too sweetly, he continued: "Maybe if you stop sending the notes, I'll cash the checks." The smile changed, looking a bit more genuine, as a thought crossed his mind. "Come to think of it, if I cashed the checks, I'd get notes." His smile broadened and became real. "But they wouldn't be the kind I want." Willy held up an index finger for emphasis. Lowering his hand, the smile fading, he laughed a short, mirthless, little laugh under his breath, and turned away to resume the search.

Terence watched the change and listened to the disparaging laugh. It started him wondering about problems money couldn't solve, but he only said, "Okay, then, I'll keep the notes coming."

Shortly after that, Terence became engrossed in a stack of inventory sheets he discovered mislaid in a drawer. Finally looking up, he found Willy nowhere in sight. Had he left? No, there was the great-coat neatly laid across the counter with the cane and top hat next to it. When had Willy taken those off, Terence wondered? Continuing to scan the shop, he heard, from behind the counter, a squeaky "Eureka!"

Terence strode to the counter and peered over it. There was Willy, sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a book in his hands, looking up happily.

"That's one word in Greek, but a whole sentence in English! Isn't that neat!" Willy chortled, practically squirming with satisfaction.

"So you found it?"

"That's what I just said! I have found it!"

"You put a Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight bar in a book?"

"No, silly. You must read here. Do you?"

"Sure, all the time. Thanks to you."

The gloved fingers on Willy's right hand waggled back and forth repeatedly in the air beside his head as he turned his face away. "Pshaw," he said dismissively, "you really didn't need my help."

"Oh yes I did," replied Terence, with feeling. "Every day straight for two solid months; you are as patient as a saint."

"I think I can safely say saints have it over me, but I do make an effort for things I like, and I do like to read," sighed Willy. "Reading can take you anywhere and teach you anything." Looking very satisfied, he said, "Teaching you was a good excuse to re-visit all my favorite books." Suddenly, Willy frowned, still holding the book he had found in his hands. "You moved, though."

"Yeah, we did," Terence replied, quickly. The lot he had seen meant moving was a sore subject for them both. He didn't want the conversation to go in that direction, and hurried to turn it back to reading. "That was I why I got behind in the first place. Every school's curriculum is different, so my timing was off. Once you fall behind on a basic like reading it's hard to catch up without everyone else thinking you're an idiot. It was getting to the point where I couldn't fake it anymore, and I also realized I wasn't going to get anywhere in life without it. I like to make my own choices, not have ignorance make them for me."

"So you said at the time, if perhaps not so eloquently." Willy lowered his head and studied the floor for a minute. His hair effectively hid his face. "Why did you ask me to help you?"

Terence laughed and Willy looked up, sharply. "That's easy. There wasn't anyone in that school more interesting than you. And you were tops in your class, so I knew you were smart. But it was the braces. They told me you were tough. Tough and smart. I just needed to know if you were generous, and I wouldn't know that unless I asked. So I did, and you were."

Willy was silent, but he suddenly felt very warm inside. It was a good feeling, like drinking excellent hot chocolate at the perfect temperature on a really cold day. He smiled to himself, pleased with how he had helped, and said, "I bet you don't remember the title of the book I was reading on the day you asked me to help you."

"I bet I do," replied Terence, with a smirk. "It was _The Once and Future King_, by T. H. White." Terrence laughed again. "How could I forget? The first thing you pointed out was that the 'T' stood for Terence."

"It was, and I did, didn't I?" came Willy's bemused response. "Remind me not to make a bet with you again."

"I might. It depends what I'd get if I won the bet. What did I get this time?"

Willy laughed easily. "This time, you get to find out where I found the box of chocolate bars." He hefted the book in one hand, and pointed with the other. "It was under this book, right here."

"Yeah, I keep whatever I'm reading under the counter, there," said Terence, leaning over and confirming the spot.

"Righty-O. Look at the title," directed Willy, now holding up the book so Terence could see it.

_"Paradise Lost_, by John Milton," he read, as Willy began to giggle, now holding up the box of chocolate bars in his other hand. In a moment, the both of them dissolved in laughter.

"_Paradise Lost._ You have no idea!" gasped Willy, between laughs, wiping away a tear.

"How do you know it's the right box?" asked Terence, his laughter dying away.

"Actually, that's a good point. Perhaps there are other mislaid boxes from that case," answered Willy, ending his laughter as well. "Let's find the bar with the Golden Ticket inside."

"We'll have to open them all."

"Of course we won't," replied Willy, testily. "We don't have to open any of them." With this, Willy returned the book to its spot and rose gracefully to his feet, placing the box on the counter. "But I will unpack it," he said, taking the bars out of the box and lining them up in three rows of five each.

"Now, Mike Teavee broke the code and he only had to buy one bar. Looking at these wrappers, can you?"

Terence looked at Willy, looked at the bars, looked back at Willy, and resignedly shook his head.

"Well, don't give up yet. It's really quite simple. I nearly laughed myself off the sofa when I watched the interview Mike gave on TV when he found the ticket, and listened to his overly complicated explanation. What did he say? Oh yes. 'All you had to do was check the manufacturing dates,' was the first bit. Translated, that would be, 'look for the gold star on the wrapper'. The next bit was, 'off-set by weather'. Complete theater that one; I have an all-weather, worldwide, delivery system." Willy emphasized this point with a dismissive flick of his hand. "The last bit was, 'and the derivative of the Nikkei index'. More theater; I mean, seriously, what has the Nikkei _anything_ got to do with this?" He giggled, and then sighed. "In the end, all his intellectual red herrings made him sound like a rocket scientist. I actually liked that. I like audacity. I had high hopes for him but..., I'm sorry, I do run on. Have you got it?"

Terence could only shake his head again. All the bars still looked the same to him.

"Okey-dokey, then, here we go." Willy gestured at one of the bars. "What does it say in the golden star on that one?"

"Win a trip to Wonka's Chocolate Factory," read Terence.

"On that one over there?"

"Same thing."

"And this one over here?"

"Same thing."

"Look again."

Terence looked again. "Well, well! It says 'Win a _ticket_ to Wonka's Chocolate Factory'." Terence looked up. "You mean that's it?" Willy nodded. "That is simple!"

"Thank you, Watson," said Willy, with a wink and a smirk. "It's always simple when Sherlock explains it. Of course, it's a lot easier to figure out if one wrapper is in fact different from the others. Mike Teavee was observant. I like that, too."

Willy laid his hand over the bar containing the fifth, and last, Golden Ticket, while Terence stacked the rest of the bars on the display stand. When he finished, Terence noticed a distinct change in the atmosphere of the shop. All the energy seemed to have left it. His gaze fell on Willy. No. That wasn't right. All the energy had left Willy.

"I'm sorry, Willy. I had the ticket and I didn't sell it because I misplaced it. I heard what you said earlier about Mike Teavee. You had 'high hopes' for him. I don't know what you had in mind, but it wasn't just a tour was it?"

Willy smiled a small, resigned smile. "As it turned out, it was. Would it have been different if this ticket had been found?" His eyebrows arched upwards speculatively for a moment. "No... maybe... I don't know," he continued, with a shrug of his shoulders. "But we've solved the mystery of _how_ this ticket wasn't found, haven't we?" He watched as Terence nodded. "Still, I do wonder _why_ it wasn't found." Willy looked pensive, and Terence shifted uncomfortably. Willy noticed the movement and quickly said, "Don't worry about it, I'm sure there was some good reason."

Willy had a new thought. Terence could see Willy's energy returning, filling the shop with its boundless quality once again.

"I'll tell you one thing though," said Willy, pointing at the bar with a confident smile now brightening his face, "Now found this one not will be! Done with tours I am, and you can take that to the bank! Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!"

Terence shook his head. "Are you saying "yuck, yuck, yuck, or laughing?"

"Wow! Both, I guess. Isn't that weird?" answered Willy, momentarily taken aback.

Recovering swiftly, Willy shook himself and picked up the chocolate bar on the counter. "So, I'm delighted I've found my 'Delight'." He pointed at the chocolate bars on the display stand. "And doubly delighted that you've found many 'Delights'. A delightful evening for us both!"

Finishing the sentence, Willy realized the reason for the visit was also finished. He found himself disappointed for the second time that day. Lowering his head, he cast about in his mind for a reason to stay longer, but one did not readily suggest itself. _Ah, well, _he thought, _that's that. _Looking up, he said, in a bright tone that almost hid the forlorn note underneath it, "'Kay then, 'bye now!" and reached for his hat, cane, and coat.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	4. The Tour Begins

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_**SereneHalcyon** and **dionne dance**: __Your reviews make my day! Thanks!  
_

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"Don't go yet!" exclaimed Terence, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "You just got here. Why not make the most of it? You never leave the factory!"

Hearing these words, Willy immediately stopped the process of gathering his things, a thin smile reaching his lips. Saying nothing, he tilted his head back, and for a long moment examined the ceiling directly above his head. From that starting point, he proceeded to slowly and methodically turn his head back and forth, carefully taking in the entire shop; ceiling, walls and floor. He held the Fudgemallow Delight in his left hand, while the fingers of his right hand absent-mindedly stroked the brim of the hat he had just returned to the counter.

The survey finished, Willy's gaze settled back on Terence. Solemnly he said, "This is definitely a part of the Factory I've never seen before." He finished with a wry smile and an arched eyebrow.

Terence laughed, but looked chagrined. "Point taken. I guess if you're standing here it's not true that you never leave the factory."

"It certainly is grounds for introducing some doubt. But I like people to believe that," replied Willy. He put the Fudgemallow Delight back down on the counter and took his other hand off the hat.

"Believe what? That you never leave the factory?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Doors, gates, whatever, make a great wall, don't cha think?" They both turned to look at the door. Closed, it did look like a decorative part of the wall. "It all changes when you open it." Willy made a gesture with his hand. "Then it's a passage. People see you coming out, and it's only a matter of time before they become resentful that they can't come in. I don't want them in and I don't want them resentful. My solution is to let the gates function as a part of the wall. Ha!"

Terence saw that Willy was serious, and there was, he decided, a certain logic to this reasoning. In any case, he wasn't about to debate the issue. "But you do leave. I guess the question is, do you do this often?"

Willy tilted his head and considered Terence carefully. "I can't understand you if you mumble."

"I wasn't mumbling," Terence replied firmly, "and I'll be very insulted to find you do and haven't paid a visit here before now."

Willy laughed and made a sweeping bow to his childhood friend. "The last thing I want to do is insult you, my dear fellow. If it makes you feel any better, my jaunts are less than few, and generally not local. I usually use the Great Glass…ah, that is, alternate transportation. But if you'd like, then I'd like too, to stay awhile longer. I had people in for hours on the first, I may as well be out for hours now, particularly in such friendly company."

Terence returned the bow smartly. "Thank you. Tell me about the people you had in on the first."

"Ah. The tour." Willy flicked his hand dismissively. "Most of that has already been in the papers. I'm sure you've already read the accounts."

"Not your version."

"True. Hmm. Well, why not? You can play the role of therapist, and I'll tell you all about it."

Willy made a cursory show of looking about that ended in a mock sigh. "No couch. I guess this will have to do." He settled himself on one of the high stools behind the counter. Terence did the same on the other.

Folding his arms across his chest, Willy propped his feet up on the shelf below the counter to make himself more comfortable.

"As I watched the interviews of the ticket finders on television," he began, his voice with a dreamy quality to it, "I knew I was in trouble. I'm not fond of television, but the rest of the world is, so you can't ignore it entirely. On the other hand, what kind of plan is it that has _me _watching it. Ew." He made a face. "But I digress."

"The first ticket finder was a German boy, Augustus Gloop. He was quite fat, and I had my doubts he'd be able to concentrate in a candy factory."

"The second ticket finder was a girl from England, Veruca Salt. The only difference between her name and a wart is an 'r'. It made me wonder about the education and thought processes of her parens and I didn't feel any happier when her pater said in the interview that she badgered him into finding her a ticket. In her favor, it did show determination and excellent manipulative skills."

"Excuse me," interrupted Terence. "Did you say 'parens', 'pater', and you value manipulative skills?"

Willy looked cross. "'Parens' and 'pater' are words I can say in Latin but not in English. At least, not without a lot of bother. The context will give you their meaning and admit it, in certain circumstances, manipulative skills are all you have."

"Well, maybe, please continue."

Willy nodded his head and resumed the narrative. "The third ticket finder was from the States, Violet Beauregard. She had a lot going for her. She was smart, determined, competitive, and athletic. A real go-getter, but she chews gum 24/7. I hate gum, and I know you know why, as you've already mentioned them once." Willy abruptly stopped talking, but couldn't stop himself from glaring at Terence.

That would be because of those gone, but, apparently painfully not forgotten, braces Willy's father, ah 'pater', I get it, thought Terence, had forced Willy to wear as a child. Terence held Willy's glare and nodded nearly imperceptibly.

Willy waited a minute more in defensive silence, but relaxed and continued when he realized that Terence now understood the depth of his loathing for that subject.

"The fourth ticket finder was also from the States, Mike Teavee. He was a lot like Violet. Smart, determined, a lot on the ball, but very angry." Willy paused briefly, reflecting. "Angry doesn't bother me. I've been angry, but you can't let it define you, and it's a terrible life style."

Willy sighed as he continued, "It worried me no end that the fifth ticket wasn't found. Not a good sign at all. I seriously considered calling the whole thing off, but in the end it seemed easier to go ahead with it."

"So you did," said Terence.

"I did. My workers, the Oompa-Loompas, were very excited to have people visit the factory and they were very keen to participate. I hate to disappoint them, they are such good workers and wonderful friends, so when they suggested they handle the welcome I was happy to let them."

"Oompa-Loompas from Loompaland," interrupted Terence again. "I read about them. How ever did you find them?"

"After I closed down the factory…"

"Spies," muttered Terence.

"I went on expeditions to find exotic flavors for candies…"

"What about the spies?"

"On one particular trip, I found the Oompa-Loompas living in a jungle with some very nasty beasts for neighbors and very little food…"

"Will you tell me about the spies?"

"No. Don't ask again." Willy was losing patience, his mood darkening by the minute. "Are you done?"

"No," stammered Terence, hoping his curiosity hadn't pushed his reclusive friend too far. "I mean, yes, ...I mean, I'm sorry, I don't know what I mean. Please continue."

Willy scowled, but went on. "The Oompa-Loompas spent their time dodging whangdoodles, hornswogglers, snozzwangers, and staving off starvation by eating revolting tasting green caterpillars, and I speak from experience when I tell you that those caterpillars...do...taste...revolting," said Willy, his face showing his disgust. "It was not an appealing way to live. Their favorite food is the cacao bean, an item scarce in Loompaland, but not scarce in my factory. That being the case, I suggested they come and live with me at the factory and they accepted."

Willy's mood lightened again, as his thoughts returned from a troubled past to a happier present. "As I said, they were very keen to handle the welcome and planned a song with accompanying puppet activity. They do love songs! And singing! The idea was that I would be the centerpiece in this little number but, at the last moment, they decided to add fireworks and some pyrotechnics, and I decided to watch the show with the ticket finders and their parens."

Terence nodded his head, glad to feel the tension had retreated.

"The song was quite good. Some might say the hyperbole in the lyrics was a bit over the top, but _I_ wouldn't be one of them." Willy grinned. "On the other hand, the pyrotechnics were too close to the puppets, and some of them did catch fire. It was quite a sight. Puppets melting, eyes popping out of their sockets." Willy paused as he replayed the scene in his mind, a little smile playing about his lips. "It sure made for a rousing finale!"

"What did your visitors think?" asked Terence.

"Hard to tell, really. They exchanged glances with each other, but otherwise didn't make a move. I went up the steps, and waited for the stampede back to the gates, but they all stayed put, gosh darn it! I decided to go with an unusual greeting to see if that would tip the balance but no, it didn't, so I finished up with something normal."

"How very odd for you," remarked Terence dryly.

"I had the normal on a card, so I'd get it right," agreed Willy.

"How very odd for them."

"Odd or not, _that_ crowd wasn't gonna let small fires, melting puppets, or," irritated, Willy moved his head back and forth, once, so swiftly only his hair shook, "what _they_ thought were, but really _weren't_," he sounded petulant, "a non sequitur or two from me, their host, keep them from going inside," his voice was dripping with sarcasm now, as he made fun of the grammar, "the-Factory-into-which-no-one-goes, so in we went." Satisfied he'd expressed himself adequately, Willy paused for dramatic effect. "Once inside, it was all downhill."

Terence lifted a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes.

Willy stopped the narrative, and waited until Terence looked up. "I really mean that," he said, genuinely. "Most of my Factory is underground. Yeah. The main corridor slopes downward as you walk along it. Of course, I wasn't at all amused when the gum chewer suddenly grabbed me as we did, and insisted on telling me her name." Willy grimaced remembering it.

"That can't have been very pleasant for you," Terence said thoughtfully. "What would make you want to put yourself through something like this?"

"Well, it wouldn't be just some something, it would…," Willy caught himself and adroitly changed course. "Actually, now that you mention it, at this point I was wondering the same thing myself. Despite my intentionally snippy replies…"

"And snippy you can certainly be," sighed Terence.

Willy grinned a smug little grin, "…each of the others followed suit. Mike Teavee was the only one who kept quiet. To show my approval, I turned to him, told him his name, and complimented him on breaking the code." With this, Willy looked peevish and said, "Of course, my doing this should have made it obvious to the others that I knew their names all along."

"Was Mike flattered?" asked Terence.

"He looked sullen. I wasn't using a flattering tone."

"Why make it so hard for him to know he pleased you?"

"There's a lot at stake, and I can't afford a light-weight." Willy waited for Terence to ask what was at stake, but Terence had already been re-buffed on this point more than once. Deciding not to take the offered bait, Terence instead smiled far too sweetly, and waited for Willy to continue.

Willy laughed quietly, and gave his friend a nod.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	5. The Tour Explores

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_**dionne dance**: Yup, Terence is a pretty astute fellow. Thanks for the review!_

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"The Oompa-Loompas and I had a lot of time to study the winners before the tour, and we decided to show them the rooms we thought they would enjoy the most. The first room on the agenda was the Chocolate Room."

"The Chocolate Room?"

"It's where I mix the chocolate," Willy explained. "I use a 30 meter waterfall to do it! It churns the chocolate; makes it light and frothy! At the base of the falls it becomes a chocolate river."

"A river?" said Terence, in a small voice. "Of chocolate?"

"Yeah, nifty, eh?" Willy puffed up like a peacock. "A river, with pipes in it. Some of the pipes are maneuverable, suspended above the river. The pipes suck up the chocolate, and take it wherever I need it in the factory. It's a neat system, and I'm the only one that has it!"

Terence could easily see that Willy was proud of this system, because he looked positively radiant, just talking about it.

"Everyone, except Mr. Salt, was very impressed with the room." Willy's face morphed from radiant to sour in the time it took Terence to draw in a breath. "Mr. Salt thought I was weird to waste my time…"

"Wait a minute. He thought you were weird to mix chocolate?"

"…with all the candy."

"Candy? What candy?" Terence held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Now you've got me confused. I thought you said it was a chocolate river."

Willy sighed. "It _is_ a chocolate river, but everybody knows," he explained patiently, "that rivers run in valleys, so the rest of the room is the valley. It has hills and trees and all manner of other plants, including swudge, and they're all made of candy. It's very beautiful, if I do say so myself, and I did, because none of the others said a word."

"Swudge?"

"A delectable minty grass I make. I call it swudge because it's such a fun word to say," replied Willy, giggling to himself. "Just start saying it out loud, and you'll see what I mean."

Terence sat back on his stool and closed his eyes, feeling overwhelmed by it all. Willy had lived in the imaginary worlds of the books that he read, when Terence had known him as a child. Apparently, as an adult, Willy had reversed the process. He had taken his own imaginary world and turned it into reality.

Terence tried to imagine the Chocolate Room with its 'chocolate-fall', over 90 feet high, cascading into a chocolate river, in a room that was an entire valley filled with candy landscaping. He found that he could barely do it, and it made him feel sad. There was a time, when he was a child, when he knew Willy, when imagining it all would have been so easy. But now, it took everything he had. The world Terence had spent his life living in was a practical one; one that set low expectations — it only wanted what was sensible — and it discouraged those who thought otherwise. Maybe becoming a recluse wasn't such a strange choice, after all.

"You don't look so hot," he heard Willy say. Terence opened his eyes, surprised to find Willy leaning toward him, studying him intently, as if trying to read his mind. It was a bit disconcerting, but he recovered quickly.

"Imagination," he answered, sadly. "I used to have it. I didn't realize I'd lost it, until now, hearing about your factory. I can hardly imagine what you're telling me."

Willy didn't know what to say. This was serious. The silence lengthened like a shadow.

"I miss it," Terence said, breaking the stillness, and looking at the floor. "I didn't know that until now, either. Somehow, I feel smaller without it. I'd like to get it back." He raised his eyes to Willy's. "Please continue."

Willy made a little noise in his throat, but he didn't continue. He was mulling over what Terence had just said, looking at it in his mind's eye, considering. Life without imagination would be life without a heartbeat. Impossible. Finally, having finished considering his considering, Willy said brightly, his voice very much alive, "Terence, my dear fellow, don't give it another thought. If you had it, then you have it, and I know you had it." Willy looked at Terence confidently. "Imagination is like matter: Indestructible! You're just rusty, that's all."

Terence looked hopeful as Willy continued, "Really. You're fine. It's the people who don't have it, don't want it, and insist on stamping it out in others that worry me. I spent a lot of my childhood with one of them, and I just spent the better part of a day with some more."

Terence felt happier. He figured Willy was a pretty good judge of imagination. If Willy said he still had it, then he probably did. Encouraged, he asked, "Did Mr. Salt really say you were weird?"

"Not in words, no, but his expression spoke volumes," answered Willy, now pleased to continue. "Once I clued everyone in that all the candy in the room was on the menu, they all took off to try things. But Mr. Salt didn't leave. I knew he wanted to ask me why I had taken this 'organic' approach, and I was all set to answer his questions. After all, the entire room is a showcase for what a creative atmosphere can accomplish! A very important concept!" Some of the energy left Willy's voice, and he looked less happy. "I was actually looking forward to talking about it, but in the end, the old Salt never spoke. Instead, he rolled his eyes at the room, looked back at me, curled his lip, raised his eyebrows, and turned away."

"Snubbed in your own factory," stated Terence, gravely.

"Yeah," said Willy, turning the word into a sort of lilting laugh. "Can you believe it?" Willy sounded dazed as he said this, but his tone quickly turned to disdain. "That man! The way he looks at it, if the production line doesn't connect directly to the bottom line, it's out of line. He thinks creativity cuts profits, but he's wrong; it expands them." Willy was shaking his head with continued disbelief. "I can't escape the irony here, either. He runs some little nut company, while I run the most successful candy factory in the world, and he's dissing my methods?"

"You were miffed," said Terence, with a grin.

"Miffed I was, alright," agreed Willy, grinning back.

The two looked at each other for a long moment, before spontaneously bursting into peals of laughter.

Still laughing, Willy said, "It gets even better!"

His laughter subsiding, Willy said, "I thought the Gloop boy wouldn't be able to concentrate in a chocolate factory, but I was wrong. He was able to concentrate 100% — on the chocolate. Now, the only thing I retail in that room _is_ the chocolate, so it has to stay pure. That means no touching! But, what is the Gloop boy doing? He's scooping handfuls of chocolate from the river, and sucking them down like a pipe himself. His minder told him to stop, and I did, too, but he ignored us both, and proceeded to FALL IN! Yikes! Ghastly! All those germs in my chocolate! Yuck!" Willy's eyes were wide, and he looked nothing short of horrified. "I'm talking serious cooties going on here!" His voice had become a whisper. "I had to destroy the entire batch."

Willy lapsed into a pained silence remembering the unfortunate fate of that batch of chocolate.

Terence decided it might be best to interrupt Willy's thoughts. They didn't look pleasant. "I read Augustus got sucked up a pipe," he said.

"He was," replied Willy. "I had to destroy the entire batch of strawberry-flavored chocolate-coated fudge, too," Willy continued, still with a long face. Then he brightened a bit. "Fortunately, I didn't have to destroy the pipe. I sterilized the pipe, along with the chocolate mixing barrel."

"It must have been traumatic."

"Oh, it was," breathed Willy, doing his best to look traumatized, and succeeding nicely. "I've never had to destroy so much chocolate, or fudge!"

Terence sighed. "I meant for Augustus, being sucked up a pipe."

"Nonsense," answered Willy smugly, picking at some imaginary lint on his coat. "That pipe probably saved his life. Mrs. Gloop said herself that he couldn't swim, and chocolate is very heavy. None of us could have gotten to him faster than that pipe did. He's just lucky I had it nearby. Oh, and by the way, fat floats, so he had that going for him."

"Well, okay. What about the other kids?" asked Terence.

"Oh no, we're not done with the Gloops yet!" exclaimed Willy, holding up his right index finger in a point toward the ceiling and then putting it down again. "Eshle, my chief Oompa-Loompa, told me later that those two managed to cut a swath of destruction through the Chocolate Room. Tearing up the swudge, hoarding bon-bons, greedy and wasteful the both of them! And," the hand was back up, "when that not so little boy saw all the Chocolate Room had to offer, he dropped the bar of chocolate he had brought in with him on the spot! So his first contribution to my beautiful room was to litter it!" The hand came down and Willy crossed his arms in front of his chest, a frown on his face. "That boy was definitely not suitable."

Terence found himself amused by this last comment. "Not suitable? Not suitable for what?"

"Not suitable for a tour, of course," replied Willy with a pout. "He managed to remove himself from it in no time, didn't he?"

Terence couldn't deny that.

Willy got up from his stool and began to poke around in the self under the counter.

"Okey-dokey. You asked me about the other kids. Violet Beauregard ate a toffee apple and was otherwise unremarkable. Veruca Salt ate a lollipop and was heard to say, in a whiny voice, 'Pater'…" Here Willy paused in what he was saying, stopped poking around, and straightened up. "Well, that's not the word she used…"

"Daddy," filled in Terence.

"…that's the word, 'I want one of those' fill-in-whatever-she-was-looking-at here, 'get me one of those...' blah, blah, blah, you get the drift. All I heard were mealy-mouthed placating remarks from her already annoying pater, but she was really starting to bug me when she spied the Oompa-Loompas, and wanted one of them."

Terence's eyebrows climbed skyward.

"Teavee the younger spent his time destroying a jelly filled pumpkin, while his pater followed him around quite happily telling him all the things he shouldn't do." Willy's tone went from exasperated to thoughtful. "Seeing that went a long way toward explaining that boy's anger. I can sympathize, I think I've already said I've been there, but I'm looking for creativity, and destruction is the opposite of that."

"I'm still thinking this is not just a tour," said Terence, while Willy roamed out into the store.

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_Thanks for reading, and remember: reviews... suck up the uncertainty... and carry it away... all over the web-site. Please review!_


	6. The Tour Invents and Goes Nuts

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_**LiviahEternal: **To paraphrase **Casablanca** "...not this chapter, or the next, but soon, and for the rest of the story." Je vous remercie pour vos aimables paroles._

_**dionne dance**: Thanks for the review. That candy wrapper was a real 'pearls before swine' moment._

_**Dysphasia: **It's reassuring to read that it's not just me thinking that parts of this are funny. Thanks. _

* * *

As he passed his hat on the counter, Willy stopped and put it on. Terence held his breath, wondering if Willy was leaving. But no, his coat and cane untouched, Willy was now happily poking around the rest of the shop. Terence exhaled slowly, concluding that Willy must want some distraction. Sure enough, the narrative resumed.

"We took the yacht to the Inventing Room."

"You have a yacht?"

"Naturally. If you have a river, you must have a yacht. Mine looks like a Viking ship, with the ends shaped like the head and tail of a sea-horse. I made it out of a boiled-sweet, and it's a very pretty pink. Its length overall is 30 feet, with a beam of 9.5 feet. It's the only candy Teavee the younger tried to eat — he was licking it — but that will just make it sticky, so I asked him to stop."

Terence discovered Willy had been right. He found he had no trouble at all imagining the boat, ah, yacht, and it didn't even surprise him that it was made of candy. The rust on his imagination was falling away, and quickly.

"I wanted to see if any of them enjoyed the adventure of an open boat going full speed down chocolate rapids." A magazine caught Willy's attention.

_That'd be an adventure worth trying_, Terence thought to himself, as he imagined chocolate rapids.

"Alas, none of them did." Willy returned the magazine to its rack.

"The next room I took them to was the Inventing Room. The Inventing Room is the most important room in the factory, but there was no way I was going to show them anything important in it." Willy's voice took on a sing-song cadence, as, tilting his head back and forth, he chanted, "Nope. Non. Nada. Nyet. No way!" He paused, nodding with a tight smile in Terence's direction. "I'd just show them the things that still needed work."

Willy's eyes narrowed. "I bet even now Slugworth and rest of those parasitic, candy-making cads are trying to figure out ways to kidnap those kids, hypnotize them, and find out everything they remember about that room. Of course, Augustus needn't worry."

Willy laughed to himself in a way that sent a shiver down Terence's spine. _I don't think Willy enjoyed this tour very much_, he thought, as he said calmly and deliberately, "That sounds rather fanciful to me, Willy, if you don't mind my saying so."

Hearing his name spoken aloud, Willy retreated from the dark reverie that threatened him. Spies. Lies. Thefts. Secrets. He looked speculative as he considered the remark, realizing that to Terence he must seem... overly suspicious. He knew he wasn't. Shrugging his shoulders he murmured, "Well, perhaps." There was no point in burdening Terence with it.

Willy paused to rearrange some items on a shelf, and then continued. "Violet Beauregard, after seeing _nothing_ in the room work as advertised, insisted on trying the three-course-meal gum I have in the works. I told her three times not to do it, including while she was chewing it! I said, 'Spit it out!'" Willy came to a halt and turned to face Terence. "I don't see how I could have made it any plainer than that! She ignored me, but the most amazing thing was that her…" Willy held out his hand, palm up, toward Terence and waited.

"Mother," Terence quickly supplied.

"…told her to GO AHEAD! Because, by gum," Willy inclined his head with a wicked smirk, "her daughter was going to be the first person to have a chewing gum meal!"

Willy had become quite animated, but now he became quite still. Very quietly, so that Terence had to strain to hear him, he said, "And that's how you become a blueberry. Listen to someone who doesn't know anything about it instead of someone who knows everything about it. Well, that little girl got her way."

Terence made no comment. Willy might be standing here in the shop, but it was clear that his mind was far away.

Willy moved towards the door, stopped a few feet from it, and stood looking out. "It's getting late, isn't it?" he observed.

"Not particularly," replied Terence. Dusk was well under way by then, but it was February, and the days were short. The light might be fading, but that didn't mean it was late. "Unless you have a very important date. Do you?"

"Not particularly," said Willy in a desultory tone, echoing Terence, his eyes half closed. The Factory was beckoning, but so was his friend.

"Good. Because by my reckoning there are still two children left on this tour."

"That's right," Willy said, searching within himself to find the emotional energy to continue. "The Salts and the Teavees."

Willy turned from the door and settled himself on the stool behind the counter, once again putting his feet up on the shelf.

Terence was glad to see his shop had survived Willy's unique style of impromptu inventory.

"I have hundreds of rooms in my Factory, but choosing the next one was easy. It was time to take the Salts to the Nuts, and before you make that smart remark you're considering, it's the room where I sort the nuts I use."

Terence arched his eyebrows, pointed to his chest, and mouthed 'who me?' while Willy continued, a smile on his face that quickly disappeared. "You may recall that Mr. Salt had issues with my methods in the Chocolate Room."

"Yup, I remember. Thought you were weird but wouldn't say so," confirmed Terence.

"Well, this continued in the Inventing Room, but at least he decided to speak up. He couldn't see any reason for my three-course-meal gum, and said as much. 'Why would anyone want that?', he said. By snozzberries, when I get that perfected, it will raise the bar of 'eating-on-the-go' out of sight. Who wouldn't want that?"

"You," answered Terence simply. "It's gum."

"Details, details…," Willy waved gloved fingers in the air, feeling better. "I'd be offended, but it's true," he said, with a laugh. "Anyway, when Mr. Salt saw the Nut Sorting Room he felt right at home, knew all about it he did, suddenly we're best mates now, and he handed me his card." Willy made a face that looked a lot like scorn. "I gave it all the consideration it was due."

"You threw it away."

"Immediately," came the immediate reply, in the softest, and most silky voice Terence had ever heard.

Willy's eyes became unfocused as he remembered the incident, staring at a point only he could see. Still speaking softly, he said "I threw it over my shoulder. Salt didn't see that, he was looking at the door; anticipating seeing some machine he uses."

Terence watched as a look of complete satisfaction washed over his old friend's face.

"The Havermax 4000." Willy began to giggle manically.

"What is the Havermax 4000?" asked Terence, his brows knitted together. Willy was probably okay, but you could never really tell.

Willy turned shining eyes to Terence. "It's a plum dropped in my lap! Handed to me on a platter! It's the shoe off the other foot! No, really, it's Mr. Salt extolling _his_ method of doing business! As I said, it's a machine! Too good to pass up!" The giggle turned to a chortle as Willy talked. Now he grinned at Terence and said, "He asked me if I had one. I told him 'No', and laughed. Then I looked at him, just the way he had looked at me in the Chocolate Room, and I said to him - exactly what _he_ had _thought_ about _me -_ 'You're really weird!'" Willy looked vastly pleased with himself. Thinking back on it, he added, "To Salt's credit he had the decency to look dismayed when he realized I'd known all along what he'd been thinking."

"Touché, Mr. Wonka," said Terence, nodding his understanding.

Balancing easily on the stool, Willy drew his knees up to his chest, resting the side of his head on top of them while wrapping his arms around his legs. It was a hug he was giving himself.

"Yuppers, touché, me. It was one of the most satisfying moments of the tour." As quickly as he had curled himself up, Willy uncurled himself, settling his feet once more on the shelf behind the counter, continuing where he had left off, and leaving Terence with the impression that he wasn't even aware of what he had just done. "So, in we went, and the little Salt didn't disappoint. 'Squirrels,' she said, when she saw the squirrels. Really, I was very impressed, nothing gets by her."

The sarcasm wasn't lost on Terence.

"Mr. Salt surprised me by asking an intelligent question sans attitude for a change. He wanted to know why I used squirrels to do the sorting, and of course it's because they can get the walnut out of the shell, whole, almost every single time."

Terence nodded his head.

Satisfied that Terence appreciated this fine point, Willy pressed on. "His little girl continued not to disappoint, she started the 'Daddy, I want …"

Terence leaned forward, riveted. Willy had said the 'D' word, but in a voice that sounded exactly like a whiny little girl!

"...chorus she'd been screeching all morning almost immediately." Willy shook his head. "My ears still hurt! This time the fill-in word was 'squirrel', modified by 'trained'. I almost felt sorry for the old Salt when he asked if he could buy one, but the key word there is 'almost'."

"I'm betting you don't sell them," said Terence.

"Pay the winner!" replied Willy, briskly smacking one gloved hand on the counter. "As I expected, she wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Now, these squirrels do their job well, but the last word I would use to describe them is 'tame'. Salt the younger found this out when, over my objections, she tried to take one, anyway. The squirrels are very protective of each other, and in defense of one of their own they swarmed all over her."

"Swarmed?"

"You can't blame them, they're just squirrels," replied Willy softly.

Terence decided not to try to imagine _that_ scene. "And then…?" he asked.

"The squirrels pegged her as a bad nut. The squirrels toss the bad nuts into the garbage chute in the middle of the room's floor, so that's where they sent her."

"The paper said she and her father both came out of the factory covered in garbage."

"True enough. At my suggestion, the dear man followed in her footsteps. You see, if she were stuck at the top of the chute, he could just pull her out." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Willy realized his mistake, and he gave Terence a quick sideways glance. Terence wasn't a fool, and Willy hadn't meant to imply he was.

"She wasn't stuck there."

It was a statement, not a question, and Willy quickly said, "Sorry, no, she wasn't." Willy's agitation was palpable. "I didn't mean to put you on, I just got caught up in the language of the day."

"No problem," said Terence graciously, taking into account the contrite expression on Willy's face.

What followed was an awkward silence, that wasn't really silent at all, due to the squeaking of Willy's gloves, as he fidgeted nervously with his hands. To stop that annoying activity, Terence asked a question to which he already knew the answer. "So, Salt the elder went down the chute as well?"

"Yesiree," said Willy gratefully, nodding his head, more than eager to move on. "The squirrels continued not to disappoint, and Mr. Salt, a bad nut too, went down as well." Willy's hand made a sliding motion to illustrate, as he smiled sheepishly at Terence. "That's the beauty of the garbage chute in that room. It's big enough for them both." There was that silky voice again.

There was another silence, this time a companionable one, while Willy regained his composure.

"Ready for the next question?" asked Terence.

"Probably not, but go ahead," replied Willy, rocking on the stool a little.

"Sure you are," said Terence. "Why include her father?"

"Her particular bad behavior can only flourish with careful nurturing by the parens. They're as much to blame as she is, probably more," answered Willy, nodding thoughtfully to himself, as he stopped rocking. "That's why I had the portraits made."

"The portraits?"

"Of Mr. and Mrs. Salt. I didn't know which paren that little girl was going to bring, so naturally I had to have a portrait of each. As the opportunity presented itself, the Oompa-Loompas sent the portrait of Mrs. Salt down the garbage chute as well. I certainly didn't want the Salts accusing me of leaving anyone out in that bunch," said Willy, looking aghast at the thought.

"So you planned all this?" asked Terence. He was thinking to himself that it was certainly an elegant plan, so Willy's reaction to what he thought was an innocuous question caught him completely, and unhappily, by surprise.

Without a warning, Willy's entire demeanor instantly transformed. "Of course I didn't plan it!" snapped Willy, angrily. He drew himself to full attention on the stool, his eyes sparkling like ice. He didn't get up, because he knew if he did, he'd leave. That wasn't what he wanted, but he wasn't going to listen to this, either. "I've had enough of these accusations! Mr. Salt and the little Teavee on the day, and now you! Being ready for a disaster is not the same as planning one! There's a distinction! Make it!" The edge in his voice could have cut.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," interrupted Terence making calming motions with his hands, but also knowing that walking on eggshells was not an option that would lead to anything good. "No need to snap!" he barked. "It was just a question. Plan or no plan, let's not turn this conversation into a trip across a minefield, because if we do, you know I'm not gonna' make it out alive."

Startled by Terence's tone, and taken aback by the depth of his own anger, Willy froze. He had wanted this to go well, but he couldn't ignore any longer that it was… difficult. It was difficult being away from the Factory, the tour was difficult, dealing with people was difficult, it was just… difficult, and tiring, and now… what had Terence said, a minefield? A conversational minefield?

Willy's mind couldn't resist imagining a conversational minefield. He imagined Terence navigating it. He imagined himself navigating it.

In spite of everything, or perhaps because of everything, the images tickled him. Willy began to laugh. As he did, the intervening years dropped away, like the wrapping papers from pieces of candy in the hands of an eager child. They dropped away until he found himself back in a time when he had had a friend. A friend outside the Factory. _This_ friend, a friend before there had even _been_ a factory, and his laughter took on a life of its own. He laughed while his eyes filled with tears, and he kept laughing as the tears spilled over, gently rolling down his pale cheeks.

Happy, and sad, at the same time, he knew that difficult or not, this was worth the effort. The laughter ran its course and faded. Taking his handkerchief from a pocket, he dabbed away his tears. That done, he stared calmly back at Terence, who continued to stare implacably back at him.

"Willy."

"Yes."

"You need to get out more."

Willy renewed his giggles, only to cut them short. "Terence."

"Yes."

"I forgot how funny you can be."

"Willy."

"Yes."

Terence found bright eyes looking at him hopefully. "You didn't plan it."

Willy sighed. "No. There's no need to plan bad behavior with badly behaved children. Anticipation is all you need."

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_Thanks for reading, and, appropriate for this chapter... while chewing gum is really gross, reviews are what I love the most! Please review._


	7. The Tour Concludes

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Happy Boxing Day!_

_**dionne dance**: How wonderful... I suspect the ice cream and the yacht share the ingredient that keeps the one from melting in the hot sun, and the other from melting in the hot river! Maybe. Thanks for all the other __nuggets, as well!_

* * *

Terence sat back on his stool, his fingers laced around his knees. "I find this tour exhausting, and I wasn't on it."

"Possibly because I found it exhausting, and I'm the one telling it. It exhausts me still," replied Willy. "But..." he continued, managing to muster up some gusto, "Onward! At this point, I was left with Mr. Teavee and his very angry, but intelligent, little boy. I wanted to increase the pace of the tour, show them more things quicker, and opted to use the Great Glass Elevator." Willy's voice was positively dripping with satisfaction. "It's by far the fastest way to get around the Factory."

"You mean the 'Great Glass..., ah, alternate transportation'?" cut in Terence.

Willy turned speculative, then contemplative eyes to Terence, the smile on his face not convincing. "You don't miss a trick, do you?"

"Not if I can help it," answered Terence, sincerely. "Though you'd be surprised by how many people don't bother to notice."

Willy laughed, accepting the compliment, while deciding keen awareness wasn't a bad trait in someone on the 'friend' side of the ledger. "Yup, you're right," he affirmed, "it is sometimes the 'alternate transportation', but it's always the fastest way to get around the factory."

"Elevators usually are, floor to floor."

Willy grinned smugly. Terence couldn't guess everything. "That's the beauty of it! It doesn't just go floor to floor, it goes from room to room, and it does it by going any old direction you can think of, _not _just up and down!" Willy beamed at Terence, but then looked pensive. "Turns out though, other people don't seem to appreciate the sometimes rapid, unexpected changes of direction it makes." Willy frowned as he thought this over. "I guess they get set going a certain way and can't roll with it when they need to make a change." He smiled brightly. "Preconceptions are a serious liability in the Great Glass Elevator! It helps if you keep your knees slightly bent, too. Ha! Yeah!"

Terence was happy to see that talking about his invention had restored Willy to his earlier, jovial mood. "Where did you go?" he asked.

"Here and there, no need to bore you with the details, but as we toured Exploding Candy…"

"Exploding Candy!"

"For your enemies," said Willy, very sweetly, "but that's off point. On point is, that after spending nearly all the tour reacting negatively to nearly everything he saw, and saying very little I wanted to hear, the little Teavee choose this moment to tell me he considers everything in the Factory 'pointless' and my work 'a waste of time'."

Terence grimaced as his eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "I thought you said he was intelligent."

"He is, but that only takes you so far, and it's as far as my consideration of him went," said Willy, lost in thought.

"There it is again. Consideration for what?"

Still finding his way back from his thoughts, Willy answered, with glazed eyes, "Why, consideration for considering the considerate considerately, of course!"

_Nonsense_, thought Terence, barely able to resist rolling his eyes, _but I guess there's no point trying to pull teeth here. Especially teeth as perfect as Willy's_. Smiling at his little joke, he chuckled to himself, causing Willy to look at him quizzically. "So," he asked, before Willy could question him, "what did you say to him?"

"Nothing. Before I could say a word, he asked if he could pick a room. Isn't that wonderful?" Willy sat back with obvious delight. "I told him to go ahead. He did. He picked 'Television Chocolate'."

"Let me guess, televisions made of chocolate?"

"Of course not, silly," answered Willy, with a pout. "If I made televisions out of chocolate, the television would be gone before the program ended! After all, with the possible exception of _Family Guy_, nothing on television could be more enjoyable than eating the chocolate!"

"Good point," said Terence, wryly. "What was I thinking?"

"Yeah, what?" agreed Willy, amicably. "Anyway, to explain, it's where I'm testing sending a bar of chocolate into the TV so you can take it out of the TV and eat it. Pretty neat marketing, don't cha think? "

Terence sighed inwardly, finding himself back in the minefield. He was pretty sure what Willy had just described couldn't be done, but hesitated to say so. Willy had never been one to let reality interfere with his ideas, so if there was a chance, however minuscule, that it _could _be done, Willy Wonka would be the one to do it. Not to believe him would be an insult. Casting about for a suitable reply, he settled on, "Have you perfected that?"

Willy smiled. _Terence could easily have been a diplomat, _he thought._ Come to think of it, what _has _Terence been doing all these years? Obviously not retail.  
_

"Actually, no," Willy replied, setting his musings aside. "I have at least two problems with it. For one thing, I can't control the size of the result. The molecules pack during transfer. Something really big turns into something really small during the process. Unless I can solve that puzzle, I can't make it practical."

"What's the other problem?"

"Sometimes, you only get half of what you originally send."

"Oh," murmured Terence, happy again not to use his imagination, "that could be bad."

"You've got that right," said Willy, nodding. "This little experiment has shown me some pretty strange-looking things."

"But otherwise it works?"

"Of course it works, and I gave the Teavees a demonstration. Once I had transferred the chocolate from the other end of the room into the TV, I asked the little Teavee to fetch it out. But, it so happens, he was skeptical, and squeamish, and wouldn't take it. So I did."

"Right out of the television? That's _amazing_! They must have been so impressed!"

"Oh, yeah, they sure were! The little Teavee was so impressed, he described me as an 'idiot'." Willy rolled his eyes.

Terence followed suit, while he chuckled in disbelief. "An idiot for inventing a teleportation device?"

"No, an idiot for not trying it out myself."

"But wouldn't it shrink you?"

"You betcha, by golly, wow, it sure would!" Willy nodded emphatically. "But the little Teavee assured me he is _not_ an idiot."

Terence waited for Willy to continue, but he didn't. Instead, he was still. Terence didn't need further help.

The quiet stretched out as Terence thought over the implications of what Willy had just said. Horrified with his conclusion, he leaned toward Willy and gasped, "You don't mean he used the machine on _himself_, do you?"

"I do and he did," sighed Willy, nodding gravely. "Fortunately, he was completely unharmed."

"You mean it didn't shrink him?"

Willy looked cross. "Of course it shrunk him! That's what it does! But otherwise he was completely unharmed, and I'm used to small people." There was a pause. "Although, I have to admit," he said, tapping an index finger against his cheek, "he was quite small, even by my standards. Still," he shrugged his shoulders, "I didn't see any reason not to leave him just the way he was."

"But the account I read in the paper said when Mike left the factory he was over ten feet tall!"

"And really skinny, yeah, but you know how the media exaggerates. He didn't look over seven feet to me."

"I'm still missing a piece here, small to tall?"

"The piece you're missing is Mr. Teavee insisting that I restore his…little boy," Willy smiled to himself, enjoying the irony, "to his original size, RIGHT AWAY. Really, I'd have maybe modified the Fizzy Lifting formula to increase the spaces between the boy's molecules again, but that would have taken time. No time for time for Mr. Teavee, though," said Willy, holding up an index finger, shaking it slightly, and tilting his head. "He was frantic; thought his little boy would get squished. So, I went with Plan B. I had him stretched back out with the Taffy-Puller."

Terence considered this bit of information and said, "That activity is one adventure you won't see on my 'bucket list'."

Willy lowered his hand. "'Bucket list'?" questioned Willy. "What's that?"

"Things you want to do before you die."

"Oh," said Willy, in a very small voice.

"I still don't understand how Mike came out so tall," pursued Terence.

"I had the Oompa-Loompas do the stretching. I'm afraid they rather over did it, much to my surprise. Very uncharacteristically careless of them, don't cha know. " Willy made a face, shifting his eyes from side to side.

"Why would they do that?"

"Probably because, in the Chocolate Room, he called them 'little freaks' and told them to 'back off'. I'd forgotten about that. The Oompa-Loompas are rather mischievous. Apparently, they can hold grudges as well." Willy smiled brightly. "Who knew?" he asked.

Terence said nothing, knowing a rhetorical question when he heard one.

Willy smiled for a minute longer, but then looked thoughtful. "I guess you just never know when the 'little freaks' you insult one minute will be the folks stretching you out the next! Ha!" Lapsing into silence, he pivoted on the stool to face the counter squarely. "'Kay then, tour's over," he said, dreamily. "Bye for now."

Terence noted Willy's movement and odd comment. _Bye? For now? _he thought. "Willy?" he asked.

There was no answer.

Terence watched as Willy started to pick up the great-coat he had draped across the counter earlier, and then watched with increasing surprise as Willy put the coat back down on the counter, following it with his upper body, burying himself in its folds. In just a few moments, his gentle, rhythmic breathing was the only sound or movement.

_Yeah, okay, that tour wore me out, too,_ Terence thought, smiling gently. Rather than disturb Willy, Terence took this opportunity to go over in his mind the events he'd been listening to. Settling more comfortably on his own stool, his hands still clasped around his knees, he thought it over. _Five tickets, but one ticket not found. __Oops, my bad. __So, four tickets, four kids. A tour of the Factory_.

It struck Terence that it hadn't really been much of a tour - more like an elaborate calculation. _That Factory is __a big place. Willy said it had hundreds of rooms, but I've only really heard about four of them. Well, okay, and a river. A chocolate river! A chocolate river in a room where everything is eatable! And an elevator that goes in any, and every, direction! _

Terence scowled to himself. His mind was wandering, with so much amazing information to digest. _Alright, I'm getting off track here_, he thought, _but if the descriptions are any indication, those are four very impressive rooms_. Terence glanced over at Willy. _And there,_ he thought, _is the genius who created them, asleep on the counter of my little shop!_ _You just never know, do you? _This is not how Terence had expected the day to end, when he had started out this morning. Smiling to himself, he shook his head softly in wonder.

Terence brought his mind back to the problem. _First room, four kids, second room, three kids, third room, two kids. And then the Teavees are the only ones left. But they get to see a lot more of the factory, from the Great Glass Elevator. The tour's still on. And then Mike Teavee goes a couple of insufferable insults too far. And gets to pick a room. Gets to pick his fate, actually, _Terence mused._ The fourth room, one kid, and by the end of that room, every kid has made some serious mistake, and is off the tour. Out of the picture. Off the radar. Gone. Which brings us to now. Now the tour is over, no kids are left and Willy is unhappy. He's so unhappy, he's here in my shop, retrieving the last Golden Ticket. No more Golden Tickets, no more kids, no more…_ Terence's face lit up with sudden comprehension.

Willy took this moment to stir, settling more comfortably on the coat. "Are you asleep?" asked Terence quietly.

"Yes," came the muffled response from the otherwise unmoving figure. "I'm talking in my sleep."

Terence grinned. "I've figured it out. They thought it was a tour, but it was an audition. None of them seemed right, but a couple seemed promising, so you gave it a chance. Now, you don't like the plan."

With his head and torso still buried in the soft folds of the coat, Willy raised an arm, his hand forming an imaginary purple pistol, pointed at the ceiling. Making a clicking sound with his tongue, he pantomimed firing off a round. "Bull's eye!" came the still muffled response. "I knew you'd get it."

With that, Willy sat up, his face wreathed in a smile.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! And please review - because, when you click submit, your review is broken up into millions of tiny little pieces, and sent whizzing through the air above our heads, all ready to be re-assembled on the review page! Isn't that neat?_


	8. The Next Visitor

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Happy birthday to you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!_

_**dionne dance**: I am chagrined to say that I did not know (though I do now) who SJS is. Thanks for the introduction. And yes, it is tiresome moving the rock whenever I want to go out. So the credit must go to Mr. Depp - for infusing Mr. Wonka with a little something of Agent Sands, because when I got to that part, it wrote itself. _

_**LiviahEternal: **Bonne année! Merci pour vos commentaires, et, je suis heureux d'écrire que Charlie fait son entrée en ce chapitre._

* * *

"I was looking for an apprentice, actually. I had this idea that a child would be a clean slate. Someone willing to learn my methods, without a lot of preconceived notions cluttering up their little noggin'," Willy said, tapping the side of his head lightly, as he stood up.

"So that's why you had the contest. But sending out only five tickets doesn't sound like you gave yourself very many choices."

"Even fewer when you remember that all the tickets weren't found," said Willy, placing a hand on his walking cane on the counter.

Terence lowered his head, looking sheepish. "Sorry about that."

Willy made a dismissive motion with one hand, as he hefted his cane with the other. "Don't give it another thought, my dear Terence. I'm usually very lucky with this sort of thing, and I thought I would be this time, too."

The supremely confident tone in Willy's voice left Terence with no doubt that Willy meant every word.

"Even now, I'm not going to second guess what's happened." But here Willy's confident tone faded, turning to one of resignation. "All the same," he said, with an involuntary shiver, "this project has reached its sell-by-date. The destruction and disruptions at my dear Factory, caused by those nasty little children, are more than I care to bear."

With his left hand, Willy swept up the Golden Ticket containing Fudgemallow Delight on the counter. Holding it high in the air, he turned toward Terence, his back to the door. "So, with this little loose end safely tied up," he said, dropping the bar into a pocket and giving Terence a little bow, "I will say thank you, so good to see you, it's been charming, simply wonderful, good night, and adieu."

At that very moment, before Terence could utter a word, the bells above the shop door jingled merrily. A wraith like boy made his way into the shop. He moved slowly, as if he were underwater; each step he took was carefully placed, yet determined. Terence didn't waste a second. Launching himself off his stool, he quickly closed the space between himself and the boy.

At the same time, Willy, still behind the counter, whirled round to assess the threat. He couldn't believe what he saw — it was THE BOY! The very same boy who spent a few minutes every weekday morning outside his factory gates, breathing in the scents, with a look of bliss on his face. He'd been aware of this boy for weeks, seeing him from a window high up in the Factory. Making a mad scramble for his hat, he quickly put it on his head. Much better! His cane in his hand, his hat on his head, he was ready. He heard Terence say, kindly, "I'm sorry young fellow, but we're closed for the night. Come back tomorrow."

"No we're not!" Willy sang out. "We're open!" He leaned across the counter, now speaking directly to the boy, "but you _are_ the last customer!"

"Willy!" Terence exclaimed.

Catching Terence's eye, Willy quickly shook his head, while making a locking motion with his hand. "No, no, it's all fine, it's all good, it's all right, but this _is_ the last customer. Can you make it so, please?"

Terence nodded, and locked the door. Willy had turned the 'Open/Closed' sign to 'Closed' earlier, but he hadn't set the lock. The sign alone had been enough to turn everyone else away, but not this oblivious little boy.

The boy gave no sign that he had heard either of them. His eyes fixed on the display of Wonka bars, he neatly stepped around Terence and continued his inexorable walk to the counter.

Willy watched the boy in fascination, thinking, _if this boy were any thinner, a puff of wind is all you'd need to carry him into the next county. If those clothes were any more threadbare, they would fall off him._ These were things you didn't notice from a window high up in a Factory, wrapped up in your own problems.

The boy reached the counter. His eyes still mesmerized by the Wonka bars, he stretched out his hand toward the strangely dressed man behind the counter. "One Wonka's Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight, please," he whispered, in a voice so soft he could barely be heard. He waited as the man in the top hat, without a word, took the tenner he was offering with a purple gloved hand. The other hand, also in a purple glove, selected the requested bar from the display, and offered it to him with a flourish. Accepting the bar, he briefly thought, _is that man really wearing purple gloves?_ He didn't bother to look again, as he tore into the wrapper.

Willy stood back as the boy began to eat the chocolate bar on the spot, but he quickly stepped forward again in alarm. The boy wasn't _eating_ the chocolate, he was _wolfing_ it down, barely bothering to chew before he swallowed the pieces! This would never do!

Terence watched as Willy leaned forward and removed what was left of the chocolate bar from the boy's hands. He listened as Willy addressed the boy in an infinitely soothing voice, saying, "This is excellent chocolate, the finest in the world, but even this chocolate will make you sick if you eat it this fast. We wouldn't want that now, would we?"

Willy could see that the boy's eyes were the size of saucers, his lifeline of chocolate suddenly gone. Breaking off a bit of the bar, he handed the piece to the boy, who took it, as if in a trance. Willy waited until he had finished eating the piece, and then handed him another.

Terence moved unobtrusively toward a shelf and settled himself against it as he watched the silent exchange of chocolate between the Chocolatier and the boy. What had started as a frenzy of eating had become a measured exchange.

The boy enjoyed the chocolate. It was smooth, and rich, and creamy, and delicious. A sweet oasis of confection perfection in a world of cabbage. With every piece he ate, he felt more and more like himself, until he found he could once again expand his world to include more than just the chocolate bar itself.

The boy looked more closely at the person behind the chocolate bar. The man had unusual eyes. Before he had really looked at them, the boy had thought they were dark brown. But they weren't. They were a deep violet. _I've never seen anyone with eyes that color before_, he thought. He kept looking at them as he accepted another piece of chocolate. _But they're not just violet, either_. In amongst the violet were flecks of indigo, as well, mostly around the edges. Looking at those eyes was like looking at the dark side of the rainbow. But that wasn't all. The man's eyes sparkled, as if a vast pool of energy lay behind them, and peeked out through them. The energy the boy saw in those eyes made him want to giggle, but he didn't have enough energy of his own to do it.

The boy took another offered piece of the bar, and moved on to the man's face. It was pale. Very pale, and framed by thick, straight hair, cut just above the collar of his jacket. The color was a brown, halfway between the color of light and dark chocolate, maybe favoring the dark chocolate, just a little. _I've never seen anyone look as pale as that_, he thought, _and that's a funny haircut. He could be a ghost, or sick. But he doesn't act sick, and that other man can see him, so I guess he's not a ghost._

Taking another piece of chocolate, the boy moved on to the man's clothes. He had noticed the top hat right away, and he liked it. There was something dashing about it; it made you think of special occasions. _If you were wearing a hat like that, maybe something special could happen to you, any old-time at all_, he thought. The jacket the man wore was long, almost like a kind of coat. Made of a plum-colored velvet, it had a repeating pattern of very thin diagonal stripes in it. Two together, then one, then two again. It had a high collar, that stood up by itself. It looked very expensive, and very soft. It also looked very warm. The boy wanted to sigh, but didn't.

The chocolate bar was almost finished. Only one piece left. Just one more piece to consider the cane. The man had a cane. He didn't look old enough to need one, but he had one. A dark brown and white spiraled glass ball topped the cane, and it fit exactly in the hollow of the man's palm. _I must have chocolate on the_ _brain_, he thought, _because that ball looks like a swirl of white and dark chocolate__. _The cane itself was hollow glass, with ridges that spiraled lazily down its length. The ridges made the cane seem to sparkle, like the man's eyes, when the light caught it in just the right way. Small and colorful little somethings filled the hollow center of the cane.

The boy sighed. The chocolate bar was history.

Willy moved back slightly as he handed the last piece of chocolate to the child. He had seen the boy studying him, but that was only fair, he was studying the boy, so he hadn't minded. The clothes were not quite as bad as he had first thought, but they were still woefully inadequate. They didn't fit properly, and they couldn't possibly be warm enough - they were much too worn. As far as the thinness went, and there was no nice way to put this, life was showing this boy the beginning of the path to slow starvation. Hardship. Willy was no stranger to it, though it had been awhile. It was no wonder at all that the boy had wolfed down the chocolate bar when he'd started eating it.

The Fudgemallow Delight might be gone, but Terence could see that the connection it had given the two was still there. As he watched, a radiant smile transformed the boy's face, his smile so genuine, it lit up the shop.

"Thank you," the boy whispered, his voice a bit stronger than it had been before. Willy returned the boy's smile with one of his own, equally genuine. Terence thought he felt another presence enter the shop, and glanced about, looking for it, until he realized that what he felt was simply the happiness emanating from those two smiles.

Willy pointed to the boy's stomach, saying in an extremely serious voice, but with dancing eyes, "Now you're full of delight!"

Terence felt a little left out, as Willy and the boy both dissolved in peals of laughter.


	9. The Past

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_**dionne dance**: Thanks for your comments. I've always thought one of the reasons those two get on so well is that, before they had even met, they both loved the Factory. 'The Next Step' is the short and sweet prequel to this part of the story._

* * *

"That man," the boy pointed to Terence, "called you 'Willy'. Are you named 'Willy', like Willy Wonka?"

"You mean like that fellow that makes the candy?" asked Willy. The boy nodded his head. Willy considered his answer. "Yes," he finally said. "My name is Willy, _exactly_ like Willy Wonka." He placed his hand near the gold 'W' at his throat, and then used the same hand to point to Terence. "His name is Terence."

The boy was barely listening to him. He was still wrapped up in the magical taste of the candy bar. "I think Willy Wonka makes the best chocolate in the world," sighed the boy.

"So do I," said Willy, with a perfectly straight face.

Terence smiled, but he'd heard enough of this. Looking at the boy, who clearly hadn't understood, he asked, "What's your name?"

"Charlie," the boy replied politely.

"Well, Charlie, since you're such a fan of Mr. Wonka's chocolate," Terence resisted the urge to look at Willy, "why don't you have another bar?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't. I shouldn't have had the one I had," said Charlie, lowering his head, and looking dejectedly at the floor. "I'm sorry now that I did." His voice had become a whisper again. "But I couldn't resist," he confessed, in a breathless rush.

"No surprise there," said Willy, dryly. "But I don't understand. Why should you be sorry? And you have enough money for nine more bars," said Willy, with a tinge of impatience.

"My family needs the money more than I need the chocolate," said Charlie, in a small voice.

Willy doubted that. From what he could see, Charlie needed all the chocolate he could get and then some. "What will your…"

"Mother, father, pick one, Charlie," Terence chortled, as Willy scowled at him, "…do with the money?"

Charlie looked from the one called Willy to the one called Terence and back again. They seemed to like each other, so he didn't really know what to make of this last exchange between them. The focus was back on him, though. Two sets of eyes were looking at him expectantly. "They'll buy something else to put in the cabbage soup," he answered. "Maybe a potato, or some carrots, or maybe an onion, or maybe even some meat. That would be lovely."

Willy and Terence exchanged another glance.

"So cabbage soup is your favorite?" asked Willy.

"Not really," replied Charlie, good-naturedly. "but it's what we have - every meal. So I guess I'll take my change and be on my way." He turned to Willy. "I really enjoyed the chocolate bar. I didn't mean to eat it so fast. Thanks for helping me slow down."

Thanks from a stranger outside the Factory took Willy by surprise. For no reason he could name, Willy almost blushed. "No worries," he replied, using the slang he preferred when he wanted to keep things superficial. But it didn't work. The boy was too maddeningly sincere not to respond in kind. Somehow, it didn't seem polite. "You're welcome," he found himself saying. "Now. Your change." With the tenner in his hand, Willy turned toward the till, eyeing it as if it had materialized from an alien planet.

Terence saw the problem, but was content to let Willy solve it. Solve it Willy did. Dropping the bill on top of the till, he turned back to Charlie and asked, "What made you choose the Fudgemallow Delight?"

"Oh that's easy," answered Charlie happily. "That's the kind my Mum and Dad bought me for my birthday. It was so good I knew I had to have another, just like it!"

"When was your birthday?" Terence asked.

"In January. My parents always buy me a Wonka chocolate bar for my birthday. I look forward to it all year, and I can make it last for almost a month!"

Terence was incredulous. "Do you mean to say that you only get one chocolate bar a year?"

"Usually, but this year I've had three!" Charlie positively beamed with his good fortune, as he looked from one to the other.

Terence had to know. "You're had three this year?"

"Oh yes," explained Charlie. "This year Willy Wonka had a contest. I was hoping the bar I got for my birthday would have a Golden Ticket in it, but it didn't. My Grandpa George said I didn't stand a chance of finding one, and I guess he was right. But Grandma Georgina told me anything is possible, and I like to believe that's true, too. That's one! A little after my birthday, my Grandpa Joe showed me some money he had saved. He gave it to me to buy another Wonka bar, because he wanted us to have another chance at finding a Golden Ticket. I did, and we opened it together." Charlie looked crestfallen. "But it didn't have a ticket in it, either." He brightened as he added, "the chocolate was delicious, though, and it had nuts in it! That's two! Today was the third."

"That was nice of your Grandpa Joe to want to spend his money on a Wonka bar," Willy said, marveling to himself that he hadn't had any problem at all saying the word 'Grandpa'. Money was obviously an issue at this boy's house.

Charlie was really enjoying talking to these people about chocolate, and the Factory, and Willy Wonka's contest. He could just tell that they liked the subjects as much as he did, especially the man with the hat. "My Grandpa Joe loves the Factory as much as I do. He used to work there you know," said Charlie proudly. But his voice trailed away, as the man in the top hat, hearing these words, turned abruptly away from him, twisting the cane in his grip as he did so. Charlie had expected questions about the Factory, not a turned back, and it filled him with confusion. _Have I said something wrong? _he thought. Charlie looked to Terence for help.

"That must have been a long time ago," said Terence softly, keeping concerned eyes on Willy.

"It was," replied Charlie equally softly, taking his cue from Terence. "It was before I was born."

The squeaking of gloves on a cane filled the shop.

* * *

Willy found himself facing the wall and facing his past. He hadn't intended to do either. Walls were boring, and the past was the very last place he wanted to visit. He'd been there once. It had been the present, then, and he had hated it. He had hated all the endings in it. The end of trust; the end of the Factory; the end of his dreams; the end of his workers' dreams.

Twisting his cane wasn't helping. With an effort, he stopped.

Willy thought about the intervening years. They were no help either. Useless. All of them swept away; in an instant; no better than dust. 'He used to work there you know' echoed in his skull. So long ago. But that phrase, spoken by a small boy, not even alive when the events had taken place, had brought it all back to life. As if it had happened yesterday; or a second ago. _This boy is the grandchild of someone who knows me. Who worked for me. Who I fired. _It was an unexpected, jarring shock. Far too real. Far too painful. _I have only to turn around to see the aftermath of all that happened standing before me._ He wondered if he could bring himself to do it.

Charlie watched as the colorfully dressed man who had been so cheerful suddenly wasn't. Something was making him very unhappy. Charlie hated to see people unhappy, and he wanted to say something to make the man cheerful again. He started to open his mouth to form the words when he felt Terence's hand drop gently on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Terence shake his head, while holding a finger to his lips to indicate quiet. Charlie closed his mouth and looked back at the back of…Willy.

Willy studied the dark brown spirals on the white ball of his cane, needing to find a place to focus his attention. Of their own volition, his hands began twisting the cane again. The squeaks brought him back to the present. He had already been standing staring at this wretched wall for too long. They were waiting, he knew it, but there wasn't any part of him that wanted to explain, or talk about, or think about... _then,_ so... _now... _turn about, and leave. _Yes! Leave! Go back to the Factory! Now!_

Relief flooded his body. It felt so good, he tossed his cane high into the air, and caught it, curling his arm and bringing it close to his body as he did so. Determined, with a plan to execute, he pasted a rictus grin on his face and made the turn.

But the plan evaporated like mist in sunlight the moment he saw the boy again. Something the boy had said stopped him. There had been beginnings buried in those long ago ashes. He had found the Oompa-Loompas. The Factory was back in business. Millions of people, all over the world, were enjoying candies _he_ made. Wasn't that his dream? Realized? You never know what's around the corner, unless you pick yourself up, and go around it. He had done it then; he could do it now. _This_ might be a beginning.

Instead of leaving, Willy asked, "Did you say your Grandpa Joe loves the factory?"

"Yes," said Charlie emphatically.

"He loves it now?"

"Yes," came the same quick response.

"Why?"

Charlie found he couldn't answer right away. Willy had asked the question so quietly, and so seriously, Charlie paused. He wanted to think it over, carefully.

Seeing this, Willy was strangely comforted. He waited while the boy considered.

"There are lots of reasons," Charlie finally said. "Grandpa Joe tells me all the time that Willy Wonka is a genius, and listening to his stories, I think so, too. Grandpa loved working for him. He said it was never the same day twice." Charlie looked around. "I don't really know what that means."

"He means it was always interesting," said Terence softly. The comment brought the ghost of a smile to Willy's face that Terence found reassuring.

Charlie nodded, and continued. "Everyone loved the candies. He says Cherry Street was a very happy place, and he says Willy Wonka was a good employer." Charlie stopped and thought some more. "The last reason, I guess, is because I love the Factory, and Grandpa Joe loves me."

Willy was quiet. "Your Grandpa is a strange man to think that someone who fired all of his employees is a good employer," he finally said.

Charlie answered almost before Willy had stopped speaking. Words spilled out of him like an avalanche - as if he had waited all his short life for the chance to defend what Willy Wonka had done. "Grandpa Joe told me that happened because the employees didn't do what they should have done. People were stealing from Mr. Wonka. They were going to put him out of business anyway. My Grandpa says Mr. Wonka couldn't be everywhere at once. He says it was up to the rest of the employees to turn in the bad ones. They didn't, so my Grandpa says Mr. Wonka had no choice, he had to close his factory." Charlie's rush of words ran out. Embarrassed by his vehemence, Charlie turned his gaze to the floor, a toe digging nervously at the floorboards. He looked up, slowly adding, "He said he was sorry."

Steady violet eyes met his. "Your Grandpa?"

"No. Mr. Wonka."

The violet eyes turned away. _I was._

Charlie instinctively knew there was more to say. He tried again. "Grandpa Joe says that when Mr. Wonka fired his workers, he fired himself, too."

Willy flinched at the startling perspective. _What a way to think about it. _A wry smile emerged on his lips. _I guess I did at that. _Pursed lips replaced the smile. "But the factory re-opened, and no one was re-hired."

Charlie was again quick to come to the Factory owner's defense. "That wasn't Mr. Wonka's fault. My Grandpa Joe says sometimes you only get one chance to do the right thing. He says if you don't do it, then you suffer the consequences. There's no one to blame but yourself."

Willy was incredulous._ One of my former employees doesn't blame me? What an odd thing for this boy to say. Imagine that being true. _He'd heard this point of view expressed by his Oompa-Loompa friends, but he had never believed it. It was the sort of thing that had no meaning unless one of the people directly involved was saying it. That had never happened. With the way he'd arranged his life, how could it? Technically, it still hadn't. But hearsay or not, this boy had given him a lot to think about. He sank down on the stool, the tension that had held him draining away, as he contemplated a world less dark.

Quietly aghast at the turn events had taken, Terence had a new appreciation for the pressures Willy put himself under. Remembering the conversational minefield he had brought up earlier, he now understood why Willy had found that idea so funny. Clearly, for Willy, leaving the Factory for the local streets was an emotional minefield of unparalleled risk.

Terence turned his attention back to Charlie. Charlie may have unknowingly set off one of those mines, but Terence gave him credit. Charlie had managed to do better than merely deal with the upset. Willy was lost somewhere in his thoughts, but he was as peaceful as Terence had seen him.

Terence gave Charlie's shoulder a quick squeeze. It felt strange, but in this minute, he was proud to know them both.


	10. The Present

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Updating today is as easy as 1.23 *chortle-chortle* Okay, that's probably not as funny as I think it is... __**dionne dance**: Thanks so much for your continued support; your interest and comments keep me going!_

* * *

Willy sat quietly, lost in thought, while Charlie studied him. Willy didn't look unhappy anymore. That made Charlie glad. Charlie knew he should go, it was getting pretty late, but without knowing why, he found this man too fascinating to leave. _At least my parents won't worry about me yet. __They think I'm still at the library. _A sigh escaped him.

Charlie's sigh brought Willy back from his thoughts. A languid movement turned his serene gaze to Charlie, who quietly gazed back. For the next several minutes, each contemplated the other, peacefully, while Terence waited patiently from the sidelines. The spell was broken when Willy asked, in a whisper of his own, "You love the Factory, too?"

"Yes sir, I do," answered Charlie, solemnly. His choice of such formal sounding words surprised him, but they seemed like the right words, and he felt good saying them. "The Factory is the most beautiful place there is." Charlie decided to share a secret. "I visit it every day on my way to school. On the way back, too." A thought crossed his mind, and he began to giggle. Willy cocked an eyebrow, questioningly. Charlie clued him in. "So far, Mr. Wonka hasn't invited me in, but he can't keep the smells from leaving. I love them."

Willy burst into a fit of giggles himself, and nodded, his eyes dancing. Reaching a decision, he broke his gaze with Charlie and stood up, the energy he felt boundless. Placing both hands on the top of his cane, he turned to his old friend. "Terence."

"Willy."

"Terence." Willy's expressive voice was more than appreciative; it was downright grateful. "I can't thank you enough. In fact, I am forever in your debt. The truth is, the right person cannot buy candy bars, and find a Golden Ticket, if the right person does not have any money. It is a serious flaw in an otherwise brilliant plan, but one that is easily corrected, thanks, almost entirely, to your particular brand of inventory control." Willy raised his hat in salute.

Terence, pleased to find himself once again included, smiled broadly, and bowed politely from the waist.

Replacing his hat, Willy turned back to Charlie. Picking up the bill Charlie had handed him earlier from on top of the till, he said, "Charlie, this money is wet. Why is that?"

Willy only sounded curious, but Charlie felt his heart race. "I...I found it in the snow, just now. It was in the gutter, buried, but the corner was sticking out." Charlie bit his lip. Maybe he shouldn't have taken the money. "I looked around, but no one else was looking for it, so I picked it up. Did I do the wrong thing?" Charlie looked stricken; he never wanted to do the wrong thing.

"No," answered Willy, with authority, putting the bill back down. "You did exactly the right thing. 'Finders Keepers' is a _most_ important point in law. If you don't believe me, you can look it up for yourself." Willy trailed his fingers lightly across the bill again, considering its implications, and Charlie's recent absence at the Factory gates. "Charlie, why didn't you find this money in January? I'm usually very lucky, you see. Something must have happened to you. What was it?"

"I've been recovering," said Charlie matter-of-factly, before he could register all Willy had said. After he had, he asked, "How can my finding money be lucky for you?"

"Recovering? From what?" Willy stepped back quickly, unable to stop himself. Germs were ghastly things, and he had the health of the Oompa-Loompas to think about.

"A sprained ankle," Charlie replied, giving Willy a funny look. "I sleep in a loft. I jumped off the ladder the wrong way. It messed up my ankle so I couldn't walk on it." He looked down at his right foot. "My Mum didn't want me out in the snow with it. She thought I'd make it worse, or fall down and break something." Charlie sighed deeply. "I didn't even get to stand outside the Factory on the day of the tour. That was the day after I hurt it. I might have seen Willy Wonka!"

"Yeah, maybe," muttered Terence. "You never know."

Charlie looked up at him. "I didn't go either, if it makes you feel any better," said Terence. "I don't like crowds."

An impatient motion Willy made with his hand toward Terence spurred Charlie on. Crinkling his face in distaste, Charlie said, "I've been stuck in the house for more than a week." He made it sound like a life sentence. "That's why I'm out here now. I've been at the library, catching up on the work I missed. It has the books I need, and it's heated. I found the money on the way home." He looked from Willy, to Terence, and back to Willy again. Willy seemed content with his explanation, so Charlie decided to have another go at the question. "How can my finding money be lucky for you?"

"It'd be hard to take a tour on a sprained ankle," Terence offered.

"It would at that," Willy agreed. "Charlie. Your ankle is all hunky-dory now?" Willy's voice was solicitous, downplaying his earlier, and to Charlie, unnecessary, squeamishness. Sprained ankles, Willy reflected, weren't contagious, so... _Onward!_

"Oh, yes, it's fine now," replied Charlie, graciously. He gave up on getting the question answered.

"Then wonderful!" Willy was positively beside himself with barely suppressed excitement. "I _insist_ that you have _one more_ Fudgemallow Delight!" Charlie found himself bathed in another of Willy's radiant smiles. It felt good, and Charlie wanted to laugh. There was something so unstoppable about this man! But he hung his head instead.

Willy watched Charlie's response go the wrong way. "It will help answer your question," he added immediately, in a voice most wheedling; his head slightly tilted, his eyebrows slightly raised, and a mischievous grin on his lips.

This time Charlie did laugh. "I'd love to have another, but my family really does need the money, and I need to get home now, or they'll worry. But thank you anyway."

Willy couldn't hide the exuberance in his voice and he didn't try. "My dear boy, of course you should have the money, and of course you _shall_ have the money." First drawing himself up to his full height, Willy then leaned over toward Charlie. Looking very smug, and with an impish tone of conspiracy in his voice, he said, "_This_ one is on me. On the condition that you allow me to choose it for you." Willy abruptly abandoned the theatrics. "Will that be alright?"

Charlie really did want the chocolate. He thought about what his Grandpa George always said: "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth". It was another one of those expressions adults used that Charlie wondered about. This wasn't a horse, but it was a gift, so maybe it applied. Charlie nodded his head. He'd like to have another chocolate bar, and Willy could choose it if he wanted to. Willy nodded back. Charlie turned his head toward the display stand to see which one it would be. But Willy didn't go there. Instead, Charlie watched as Willy extracted a Wonka's Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight from the left-hand pocket of his plum-colored, velvet coat.

Willy held the bar up to the light, and examined it. Satisfied, he handed the bar to Charlie. "I selected this one for myself, before you came into the shop," he said. "I was going to take it home, but I'd like you to have it instead."

Charlie took the bar, nodding his thanks.

Willy and Terence looked on with happy anticipation.

Charlie began to tear the wrapper from the chocolate bar, but almost immediately, his hand froze, and his breath caught in his throat. He had seen the glint of gold! He looked up at Terence, standing next to him, and then at Willy, standing behind the counter. They both looked back at him encouragingly, but Charlie stopped opening the wrapper and extended his hand to give the bar back to Willy. In a halting whisper, he said, "I think you should have this back. I mean..., I think you'll want this back..., I think it has…"

But that's as far as he got, because Willy Wonka put his hands behind his back and stepped away, as he whispered even more quietly than Charlie, "I gave it to you. It's yours."

Charlie remained motionless, until he realized Willy really meant it. Coming back to life, Charlie removed enough of the wrapper to pull the fifth Golden Ticket from the bar. Putting the bar down on the counter, he held the Golden Ticket in his hands. It was a shining, golden, thing of glory. It was a miracle! And then is wasn't. There was complete silence in the shop. No one made a sound until Charlie sighed, and closed his eyes, tightly.

Terence brought his hand to Charlie's shoulder again. "What's the matter, Charlie? You're holding Wonka's last Golden Ticket!"

Charlie slowly raised his head. _How can they possibly not understand,_ he thought, as he looked at each of them, pity shining from his eyes. "I found it too late. The tour is over," he said, his voice brimming with despair.

Charlie's dismay was the last thing Willy Wonka had expected, or wanted, to see. _I may know candy,_ he sighed to himself, _but people are a puzzle. I should have known a boy like this would honor the date on the ticket and not try to use the ticket itself as entry._ Exasperation took hold of him. "Well, if it's worthless, give it to me, and I'll put it in the bin." He held out his hand.

Ignoring the hand, Charlie held the ticket tightly to his chest. "No! I'm going to keep it."

"But you said it was worthless," said Willy, softly, secretly glad Charlie had the gumption not to give up the ticket.

"I didn't," Charlie said stubbornly. "I said the tour is over. _You_ said it was worthless. It's not! Look at it! It's beautiful!" Charlie held the ticket out again. "I'm going to put it in my collection."

"Your collection?" Willy asked, taken aback.

"I have the wrappers of every Wonka bar I've ever had on the wall of my room." There was pride in Charlie's voice. "I'm going to put it with them."

"Every wrapper? On your wall?" Willy found this amazing.

"He only gets one a year, remember," interjected Terence.

With a quick glance, Willy acknowledged the comment.

"I have a model of the Factory, too," said Charlie even more proudly. "I made it out of reject toothpaste tube caps my Dad brought home from work."

Willy began, "Your…"

Before Terence could fill in the word, Charlie said, "father."

"…works in a toothpaste factory?"

"Not anymore. He lost his job because of this contest." Charlie held up the Golden Ticket.

"What? What did you just say?" Willy looked shocked, and then completely perplexed. "Are you joking? How does the one thing have any possible connection _at all_ to the other thing?"

"A lot more candy got sold, so a lot more toothpaste got sold. They bought a machine with all the money they made that replaced my Dad's job. My Mum told me."

Willy sat back down on the stool and stared into space for several minutes. Then he leaned across the counter, eye to eye with Charlie. "Are you seriously telling me, that when a factory in good times found itself in even better times, it laid off its workers? The people to whom it owed its success?" Charlie nodded his head. Willy leaned back. "That's disgusting!" The words dripped with loathing.

Charlie found himself comforted by Willy's anger. What Smilex had done to his father didn't seem right to him, and it didn't seem right to this expensively dressed person, either. He spoke with such conviction, Charlie couldn't help but feel that he knew exactly what he was talking about.

The partially unwrapped chocolate bar lay forgotten on the counter. Seeing it, Willy carefully finished the task of unwrapping it. Pushing the bar toward Charlie, he said, "I would like to take a closer look at that ticket. May I? I promise you can have it back. In the meantime, please eat this chocolate. I think it will do you good."

Charlie handed over the ticket while Willy broke off a piece of the chocolate, handing it to Charlie to get him started.

Willy gave the ticket a cursory examination. Looking up, he asked, "Terence, would you like to look at this?"

"Ah, yes, I would, that would be nice," answered Terence, in the most blasé voice he could muster, but his leap to the counter gave away his interest. Willy handed him the ticket with a giggle. Terence carefully examined both sides, holding it up to the light as he turned it over.

"So. Whatdaya think?" It was Willy's turn to sound blasé.

Terence grinned. "I agree with Charlie. It's a work of art in itself. I think the embossed factory in the corner is cunning. Is the ticket real gold?" he finally asked.

"The embossing is there to make it harder to fake, and I can say with certainty that it is gold leaf, silk screened using a negative image over an extremely fine black linen 'paper'."

Charlie ate the chocolate bar, slowly this time, savoring every bite. He enjoyed listening to the two friends speculating about how the ticket was made. Grown-ups always sounded so sure of everything when they talked, but he knew these two could only be guessing. He listened as the conversation took a turn.

"Terence, what, in your opinion, is wrong with this ticket?"

Terence was momentarily at a loss. Willy knew it wasn't a fake. What was he getting at? Oh, yes! "It's past its sell-by date?"

"Or find-by date?" Willy chortled. "I think the same thing. It says Feb 1st; that will never do, now." Willy smirked with satisfaction. "I betcha I can fix that. Hand me the ticket, please." Terence handed it over. "Today is the 10th. It will be perfectly easy to make it say the 11th, I'll just remove a bit of the gold leaf." Willy caught Charlie's eye. "That will make the ticket good for tomorrow, Charlie. Will your…"

"Parents," sang out Terence.

"…let you miss school to take a tour of the Factory?"

Alarmed, Charlie's eyes were wide. This person was talking nonsense. Just because you're named Willy, like Willy Wonka, you can't go around modifying Golden Tickets! "I think they wo-would, yes, I'm sure they would, Grandpa Joe would ma-make them," he stammered. "But you can't do it!" It horrified Charlie to think the beautiful ticket would be mangled for no good reason. "It won't do any good to change it, and it'll ruin it!"

_What an impressive outburst!_ Willy thought. _If he feels that strongly about the ticket, just wait till he sees the Factory! _Willy turned his full attention to Charlie, looking at him earnestly. Something in the look made Charlie calm down. Willy spoke slowly. "Charlie. If changing the ticket did mean you could go, would you like to?"

"Yes," breathed Charlie, in his quiet whisper. It was as if he thought the chance to see the Factory was a timid animal that would be frightened away if he said it any louder. "It would be a dream come true." There. He had dared to say it out loud, and now Charlie didn't know which was worse. The pity he felt for these two misguided adults, believing that any of this was really going to lead to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, or the hope rising in him that he knew would be dashed if it didn't.

Willy turned his attention back to the ticket. "Okey-dokey, then. Terence do you have something sharp?"

"Sure," laughed Terence, "My wits, my insights, my tongue, my elbows…"

Willy cut him off with a very dramatic, mock sigh. "I was thinking more in terms of an implement." Charlie couldn't help but laugh again. Willy broke off another piece of the once again forgotten, but now nearly eaten, Fudgemallow bar, and handed it to Charlie.

Terence, meanwhile, had moved around the counter, where he was rummaging through a box on the other side of the till. "How about an Exacto Knife?" he said, holding one up in his hand.

"Exactly," sighed Willy, with satisfaction. Taking the knife carefully, he placed the Golden Ticket on the counter before him. Pretending to study the task, he waited. When he was sure that all eyes were glued on him, he lifted his head. Smirking at them both, he raised the knife high over his head. Flourishing it with élan, he dived down to the ticket. A few deft strokes later, and the job was done. Returning the knife to its starting place, he paused dramatically, the smirk still on his face. Then, with another flourish, Willy lowered the knife slowly to the counter.

The glee in his eyes was irresistible.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Oh, and by the way, wouldn't it be wonderful, to open a bar of chocolate and find a review inside! __Fun Fact - Australian airspace has a WONKA waypoint at S32 26.7 E152 05.9!_


	11. The Hill

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_**dionne dance**: At the risk of repeating myself, your support is invaluable; __**LiviahEternal:** Merci, Charlie does seem to bring out the best in people; __**Squirrela: **I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. Thanks for your review._

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Pushing the ticket back over to Charlie, Willy asked, "Ya like it?'

Charlie examined the ticket. "Sure," he answered. As promised, the date now read 'Feb 11', an additional '1' having been neatly revealed beside the original '1', by the Exacto knife. Charlie still had serious doubts about these goings on, but these two seemed quite content, so he kept his doubts to himself.

"Alrighty, then," said Willy, coming out from behind the counter, his eyes fixed on Charlie. "10 AM. Sharp. Tomorrow. And now, it's time we all went home!" Speaking for himself, he couldn't get there fast enough. Grabbing his great-coat from where it lay across the counter, he shrugged it on, striding toward the door at the same time, his cane held high. "Oh, wait!" he cried, whirling suddenly, and heading back toward the till. "Charlie! Your change!" Scooping ten more Fudgemallow Delights from the display stand, he placed the ten note on top of them, turning to hand the whole mess to Charlie. But at the last second, he hesitated, putting the stack on the counter in front of Charlie, instead. Immediately reversing course, and without another word, Willy once again made tracks for the door.

"But you've given me more…," began Charlie, but he was abruptly cut off.

"Terence is having a Special!" Willy chirped, turning and walking slowly backward now. "It's 'ten-for-ten' and you keep the ten!" His voice became silky. "It's a very special Special. Isn't that right, Terence?"

Terence was already reaching for a bag to put the chocolate bars in. "Whatever you say, boss," he answered, happily.

"But I already had two bars…," began Charlie again, but Willy wouldn't hear it, any of it, and cut him off again.

"My dear boy, _please_ don't argue. I hate arguing. I'd be delighted, if you'd be delighted, that they're on me, because, I _said_ they were, and they were, and they are… Delights!" Willy couldn't resist a giggle. With a spin, he was walking forward again. "Terence, I'll catch up with you about the funding later," said Willy over his shoulder, still overjoyed at the thought of getting back to his Factory.

"Any excuse for another visit is fine with me," returned Terence. He held open the bag he had dug out, and Charlie dumped the chocolate bars into it. Terence handed the bag to Charlie. Technically, he had never paid Willy for the chocolate bars, so Willy didn't owe him anything. But it was a point he decided he wouldn't press.

Willy reached the door, turned the bolt, and opened it, only to discover it was quite dark now. Oh, sure, the street lamps were lit, but the light they gave was so feeble, it just made the dark areas darker, without making the light areas very light at all. He came to a halt. This would never do. "Terence." He drew out the name, as he turned back toward the inside of the shop.

"Willy."

"I think you should take Charlie home." The words were as drawn out and deliberate as the name had been.

Terence nodded his complete agreement. "That is a very good idea, Willy, and," he turned his gaze to Charlie, "I'd be very glad to take you home, but," he returned his gaze to Willy, "I think if you want Charlie to see the Chocolate Factory, _you_ should take him home."

Willy's only response was to keep his eyes locked on Terence. With both hands on the ball of his cane, his face had become immobile.

Terence didn't keep Willy in suspense. "Charlie was right when he said it wouldn't do any good to change the ticket. There's only one person who could change that ticket and have it mean anything. You know it, I know it, and Charlie knows it."

As the picture of the situation Terence was describing came into focus, Willy sighed, his shoulders slumping, his hopes of an imminent retreat to the dear, snug, Factory evaporating.

"Wait, there's more," said Terence, holding his hand up like a signal to stop, and looking just a little pleased by Willy's predicament. "Once you get there, you can't just see him safely in. Charlie's _parents_ will have to know that the only person who _could_ change the ticket, _did_ change the ticket, or Charlie's just gonna go to school tomorrow morning, like always. Isn't that right Charlie?"

"Pretty much," sighed Charlie, sorry Terence had made him say something. In this discussion, the sidelines seemed best, and he didn't want to bother these people. Besides, he'd been getting a funny feeling, ever since Willy had said, '10 AM. Sharp. Tomorrow.'

Willy didn't have to think this over for long. Terence was right, and having just said he hated arguing, he wasn't going to start one. "When I get there, how will the... parens know?"

Willy's voice held a plaintive note that Terence was sure wasn't heard often, and not just because Willy seldom left his Factory. "I imagine you'll convince them," he answered, more kindly. "I suspect Grandpa Joe will be a big help."

"You don't have to take me," Charlie said suddenly, in his quiet voice, but sounding determined all the same. "Either of you. I don't live very far from here. I'll be fine." He was growing concerned, because the conversation was taking another one of those alarming turns. Listening to these two, if he could believe what they were saying, the oddly dressed person standing near the door wasn't just named Willy, like Willy Wonka, he _was _Willy Wonka.

Charlie's gaze went to the 'W' at Willy's throat. He had seen it earlier, but it had barely registered. It was just a 'W', for 'Willy'. But now, looking at it more carefully, Charlie saw that it looked suspiciously like the 'W' on the Wonka bar wrappers. He looked from the one to the other. Nope, Charlie decided, they don't look suspiciously like each other, they look _exactly_ like each other. _Oh my! _But Mr. Wonka NEVER leaves his factory. Everyone knows that. So, if it _were_ Mr. Wonka, it would be shocking. The kind of shock that could make you fall over. If it were true, then Mr. Wonka _himself _had given him a Golden Ticket! What were the chances of that, happening to _him_? Why, he'd be the luckiest boy in the entire world! Charlie didn't want to have to fall over from shock, so, thinking it over, he decided it would be easier to keep believing it wasn't true. But what if it was? Charlie didn't know what he should think.

Terence looked over at Charlie and said, "Charlie, Willy will see you safely home." Seeing the puzzled expression on the boy's face, Terence realized Charlie was in the process of working out just who, precisely, he had spent the evening talking with. Perhaps he could be helpful, in an oblique way. "Charlie," he asked, "have you ever seen a movie called _The Sixth Sense_?" He had to laugh inwardly, because he had only asked Charlie, but both Charlie and Willy had shaken their heads. "People just see what they want to see. _The Sixth Sense _asks you to look past that."

Charlie nodded, but he didn't entirely understand what Terence had meant.

"'Kay, then, let's get a move on," said Willy, pulling himself together, and pivoting toward the door. Charlie followed, Terence waved good-bye, and out they went. Once they were on the street, Willy turned to Charlie, and asked, "Where do you live?"

"At the bottom of the hill," replied Charlie nervously, pointing into the gloom.

They began to walk, with Willy careful to stay between Charlie and the curb of the street. They walked in silence; Charlie wondering what Terence had meant by _The Sixth Sense,_ and Willy wondering how he was going to deal with yet another group of new people. What had started as a simple errand had turned into a very long day.

As they walked, the snow scrunched pleasantly underfoot. It was a soothing sound, and it calmed Charlie's sudden nerves. Their breath made clouds in the air, traffic passed in the street, and the few people about hurried on their way. It all felt very ordinary. So ordinary, Charlie felt he could afford to take it up a notch. He'd been avoiding this long enough. Now was the time to find out. "Do you live in this direction, too?" he asked, politely.

Willy smiled a very small smile, keeping his eyes forward. "No," he said, very gently. "I live in the opposite direction."

"Up the hill?" asked Charlie, wanting to erase all doubt now.

"Up the hill," confirmed Willy.

"Near the top?" asked Charlie, still not ready to believe it.

"No. Not near the top. At the top," said Willy, still smiling the small smile, making designs in the snow with his cane as he walked.

Charlie said nothing as he thought this over. There was only one thing at the top of the hill. That was the Factory, and that was where Willy Wonka lived. Charlie walked on in silence.

Willy shared the silence, but he kept a surreptitious eye on Charlie as they walked. So he was ready when Charlie said, gravely seriously, "Willy, shouldn't I be calling you Mr. Wonka?" As soon as Charlie had started speaking, Willy had skipped quickly ahead. He spun around to face Charlie, doffing his top hat and making a graceful bow, all in one fluid motion. "Mr. Willy Wonka, at your service," he said, in the deep bow, "but to answer your question, no, I told you my name was Willy, and that's what you can call me," rising as he spoke. Charlie laughed. So did Willy, returning the hat to his head, falling back into step with Charlie.

"I…," Charlie started to speak, but Mr. Wonka interrupted him right away. It was hard not to think of him as 'Mr. Wonka', now that there was no doubt.

"I can't believe this, I'm walking with Charlie…, ah, here's a good question, what's your last name?" he asked, peering down at Charlie.

"Bucket," answered Charlie.

"I'm walking along with Charlie Bucket, how amazing is that!" he finished, looking sideways at Charlie, his eyes sparkling, even in the dim light.

Charlie laughed again, but then turned back in surprise to see that Willy, er, Mr. Wonka, had stopped in his tracks. "What is it?"

"Every list you make would be a 'Bucket' list. Ha!" Thrilled with his little joke, Willy caught up with a skip.

Charlie smiled at his antics. He didn't know what a 'Bucket' list was, but it was the least of his worries. They continued down the hill together.

After a short silence, Charlie began kicking the snow in front of him with his foot as he walked, a frown on his face.

Willy glanced at him quizzically.

Looking sheepishly at the ground, Charlie said, "I should have known who you were sooner."

"Why is that?"

"You practically told me from the start."

"Well, I don't deny I have secrets," said Willy offhandedly, "but who I am isn't one of them."

"That's what I mean. I should have seen it." Charlie pointed at the now covered "W" at Willy's throat. "It was obvious. "

Willy laughed, and twirled his cane in a complete circle. "Obviously, the obvious isn't obvious at all, if what you believe won't let you see it." Charlie looked confused, but Willy kept things easy by continuing without a pause. "When you ask how often I leave my Factory, what do people tell you?"

"Never."

"Do you believe them?"

"Sure. That is, until a few minutes ago."

"So if you believe them, then obviously, if I never leave my Factory, it obviously isn't me in a shop in town."

Charlie's face became as clear as the explanation. "I see what you mean," he said, and he did.

Willy could see that Charlie did understand. _That was easy. _"Unless you test assumptions, the obvious isn't obvious at all, and it's hard to test assumptions when you're as hungry as you were," he added, sympathetically.

The happy look returned to Charlie's face, and in no time at all they were at the bottom of the hill. Charlie pointed to his house. "That's where I live," he said proudly, and he ran to the door. He waited for Mr. Wonka to catch up before he opened it.

Willy followed more slowly, taking in the house at which Charlie had pointed. It stood by itself, on the edge of what looked like a dump, but it was hard to tell in the darkness. It had obviously been many a year since it had stood upright, and while its lines might be described as whimsical now, it surely didn't look very sturdy. It wasn't very big; not much bigger than a large tool shed, really. Describing the place as ramshackle would have been overly optimistic, in Willy's view, but Charlie seemed not to mind it at all. Willy noticed smoke coming from the twisted, leaning chimney, and that made him slow his steps even more.

Willy was hanging back now, but not because of the state of the house. Willy never minded adventure, and living in that house certainly looked like one. He hung back because there were people in the house he didn't know. That made for uncertainty, and, as unpredictable as he could be himself, he didn't like it in others, especially if the 'others' were 'others' he didn't know. He managed to smile at Charlie, but it didn't feel real, even to him. "Um…," he began, but he got nowhere before his voice trailed off.

"It's okay, the house is okay, it just looks funny," said Charlie reassuringly, but he could see his words had no effect on Mr. Wonka at all. Not any. The house wasn't the problem. Then Charlie realized - As far as he and his family knew, Mr. Wonka hadn't been seen by anyone for over ten years. It was people. The _people_ in the house were the problem. Charlie frowned. This wouldn't be easy to fix. Now he understood why Mr. Wonka had wanted Terence to take him home. But Terence had told Mr. Wonka he had to do it. _And he had._ Charlie's eyes widened as he realized how much it must mean to Mr. Wonka that he, Charlie, visit the Factory. His breath caught in his throat. _Imagine that. Well, it means a lot to me, too._

"Mr. Wonka…," Charlie began.

"Willy," interrupted Willy.

"My mother's going to insist I call you 'Mr. Wonka'…," began Charlie, again.

_Families. _"Old dead geese…," interrupted Willy again, under his breath.

"Did you just say 'old dead geese'?" Charlie asked in surprise.

"Yes," sighed Willy heavily, "I did. Never mind, you're not supposed to be able to understand what I'm saying if I mumble, but go on… you must be cold standing out here."

"I know there are people in there you don't know, but you know me now, and I know them, and you've already met Grandpa Joe, and he's met you... It'll be okay," said Charlie, as convincingly as he could.

Willy shifted on his feet, moving his cane back and forth from one hand to the other. _Yup, that's the problem,_ he thought._ People. Charlie's got it. So nice to find a discerning child. So different from February First. _Still fidgeting, he reviewed Charlie's logic._ I know him, he knows them, we both know Grandpa Joe. __Yeah, okay, that __makes sense.__.. I__t actually helps, a little._ Giving Charlie a hopeful nod, his voice sounding as tight as the gloved hand gripping his cane, he said, "'Kay, then, let's go in."

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_Updating today is __irresistible! And it's the eighth anniversary!  
_


	12. The House

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_**dionne dance**: Willy does have a way with money, and as for sneaky ol' Terence... at least it's a trait Willy admires. Thank you._

_**Squirrela: **Thanks for your comments and the introduction to the phrase 'jiggery-pokery'._

* * *

Charlie pushed open the door, and in they went.

It was, and wasn't, what Willy expected. A large bed, crammed full of old people, dominated the room. A younger man sat at an old wooden table that stood between the bed and the door, reading. A woman, about the same age as the man, hovered near the cook top at the back of the room, tending to a pot on the simmer. The odor of cabbage soup filled the room, but that odor, usually so pungent, seemed weak.

The fire burning in the grate did very little to heat the house, and the inside was almost as cold as the outside. Everyone was bundled up, or under blankets, or both. Still, the wave of warmth that spilled over Willy, as he walked through the door, threatened to drown him. It was kindness, and it filled the house as surely as did the smell of cabbage. The place hadn't looked like a Whangdoodle nest from the outside, but it may as well have been. Willy was as tough as nails, but kindness could bring him to his knees.

Charlie had rushed in eagerly. Willy, in contrast, having closed the door behind them, tried to keep as close to it as would the paint it didn't have on it, furtively looking for the spot most in shadow, determinedly thinking invisibility thoughts.

"Mum! Dad! Everyone! I'm home!" Charlie cried out happily, as he rushed into his mother's outstretched arms. She reeled him in, the best catch of the day, enfolding him in a warm hug.

Repulsed and intrigued at the same time, Willy felt a knife twist, as the chorus of everyone's voices - answering back "Charlie!" - filled the room; no... not just the room, the entire house - with happiness and relief.

Family interaction! Another minefield! Mentally shaking off his discomfort, knowing he needed to keep his wits about him, Willy took inventory. There were a lot of 'everyone' - two sets of grandparents; one set each at opposite ends of the big bed in the middle of the room, and one set of... _those _people. _Those_ people were popping up all too often lately. Willy sighed inwardly, discouraged with how not saying that word, even to himself, made him feel_._ It wasn't good. Fortunately, none of 'everyone' was used to seeing anyone with Charlie, and, as focused as they all were with Charlie's arrival, to Willy's great relief, he remained unnoticed.

"Why are you so late, dear?" exclaimed his mother, holding on to Charlie's shoulders, as she released him from her hug. "We thought you'd be home an hour ago!" Though concerned, she wasn't angry, now that he was home. She felt sure Charlie would have a good explanation. If he didn't, she'd be angry then.

"Look what I found!" Charlie cried, excitedly. "It was in the snow! In the street!" He pulled the ten note out of the bag he was holding, handing it to his mother happily, his guileless smile lighting up his face. His mother gladly accepted it. "But that's not the best part! I bought a Wonka's Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight, and then I had another one, and it had this inside it!" Beaming, Charlie held up the fifth Golden Ticket.

All the family, except Grandma Georgina, who, ignored, was mumbling something that sounded like, "I love purple gloves", snapped to attention, stunned by this unlikely development. His mother started to reach for the ticket, but twisting from her grasp, Charlie held on to it. He ran over to his Grandpa Joe, proudly handing the ticket to him.

"Fat lot of good that will do you now," piped up Grandpa George, querulously, watching Grandpa Joe take the ticket. "That tour is toast, and so is that ticket!" His fist smacked the blanket in frustration. It would have meant so much to the family to find that ticket in January! He couldn't understand for the life of him why Charlie was grinning back at him with such joy on his face. The boy had gone as daft as dear Georgina!

Grandpa Joe stared at the gleaming ticket with unbelieving eyes. He brought the ticket close to his face. It really was a Golden Ticket! Grandpa Joe didn't care if it were any good or not. He had never expected to see one, much less hold one, and some things were so special, they gave you feelings so irrepressible, it was pointless to contain them. This was one of those times, and he didn't even bother to try. Throwing back the covers, he leapt out of bed, an exuberant cry of 'Yippee' erupting from his heart, made possible by his lungs. As his astonished family looked on, he danced a little jig, holding up the ticket.

The sound of a tiny giggle near the door ended his dance. Grandpa Joe knew that giggle. It was a very distinctive giggle; one he had heard often, years before, and never expected to hear again. He told stories about the person who owned that giggle - to Charlie, night after night, neither one ever tiring of them. He looked at Charlie questioningly, and then at the door. He was in time to see Mr. Wonka lower his gloved fingers from his mouth, as he heard Charlie say, "and I met…"

"Mr. Wonka!" Grandpa Joe filled in, sinking back down on the bed, the Golden Ticket forgotten in his lap. That _was_ Mr. Wonka, standing in the doorway, he was sure of it. Standing in the doorway of the Bucket house! Life took some strange turns. Mr. Wonka's hair was different; longer, and he was paler than ever, but there were the ever-present gloves, and the top hat - yes, the hat was unmistakable. Heck, maybe it was the same hat!

"…yeah, I met Mr. Wonka, and he changed the ticket, and now it's good for tomorrow, and…"

The family could see Grandpa Joe's eyes, fixed on the doorway. "It's so good to see you again. It's been years. Please come in," continued Grandpa Joe, trying to make Mr. Wonka feel welcome, ignoring the words that were pouring from Charlie.

As the meaning of Grandpa Joe's words sunk in, every eye in the place turned toward the door, and Willy, standing in the shadows, and every mouth closed. Except for the snapping of the wood in the fireplace, the house was silent.

Grandpa Joe's little jig had been a tonic for Willy, a respite from his anxiety. People being happy made him happy, no matter what else might be going on. He discovered he remembered Grandpa Joe, from Cherry Street, and the memory was a good one. But with all these strange eyes staring at him now, Willy knew the respite was over, and there was only one thought in his head - _I've got to get out of here_. He pasted a smile on his face. It was not a pretty sight.

Charlie quickly ran over to stand beside him. "This is the best part! It got too dark for me to walk home alone, so Mr. Wonka came with me. This is Mr. Wonka. Mr. Wonka, this is my family."

Mr. Bucket recovered first. "Thank you for bringing Charlie home, Mr. Wonka. Please, do come in, and make yourself comfortable."

_I can do both_, thought Willy, _but not here, and not now. Now I have to talk. _He moved slightly closer to Charlie. "Please don't thank me, it was my pleasure to bring Charlie home." Once he began speaking, Willy was glad for a lot of things, and he relaxed a little. His voice was working. It sounded excruciatingly formal, but that was okay, formal tones sounded _so_ adult, and what he had just said was perfectly, mind numbingly, 'normal'. They weren't going to let Charlie come to the Factory if they thought he was a nutcase. Encouraged, he plowed on. "Mr. Bucket, Grandpa Joe, sir, thank you for your kind invitations, but I must get back to my Factory, _right away_. I've been away for far too long, already." His little speech ended. The sea of faces looking back at him seemed satisfied, so he was, too.

Looking down at Charlie, and feeling relieved to have the worst behind him, Willy almost laughed to see the confused expression on Charlie's face. Charlie hadn't heard anything like _that_ voice, coming from him before. Giving Charlie a real smile, he said, "Charlie, I will see you tomorrow at 10:00 AM sharp, and please don't forget to bring someone with you from your, ah…,"

"Family," whispered Charlie, reassured by the familiar voice he was hearing from Willy now.

"…ah, yes, that, ...perhaps your Grandpa Joe would like to come," Willy tilted his head to catch Grandpa Joe's eye, "...if he feels up to it?"

Grandpa Joe nodded his head vigorously.

"Good." He turned his full attention back to Charlie. "I'll say good-night to everyone," he whispered. Charlie nodded. Turning to face the room, back again in the formal voice, Willy said, "Good-night, everyone." The same chorus that had answered Charlie, answered him. He found it surprisingly satisfying.

The family watched as Willy turned to go, his hand on the door knob, ready to pull open the door and make his escape. But Willy paused. It occurred to him that Fate had indeed lent him a hand; it had found Charlie for him. He decided to add his own before he left. He turned back to Charlie, and hesitantly, held out his right hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you today, Charlie," he said, meaning it. "I hope to see you tomorrow."

Charlie took the offered hand, shaking it carefully. The atmosphere was suddenly like glass about to break. "You will. Thank you, Mr. Wonka. Good-bye for now."

"Good-bye for now," echoed Willy, and he was gone.

* * *

After the door had closed on Mr. Willy Wonka, the family remained quiet, each wondering if perhaps they had been the victim of a weird group hallucination, brought on by too much cabbage soup. Even Charlie could hardly believe it. Then Grandpa Joe picked up the fifth Golden Ticket from the blankets in front of him, and they all knew it had really happened.

"Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit!" exclaimed Grandpa George. "I'd sooner expect to see pigs fly than see _that_ man in_ this_ house! What's wrong with him, anyway? He's wound up tighter than an eight-day clock." Grandpa George could always be trusted to lay the matter bare, and he didn't mince words.

"There's nothing wrong with him," insisted Charlie, indignantly. "And he gave me a Golden Ticket! And all these chocolate bars," he added, suddenly remembering the bag he still held in his hand.

"Well, that sounds useful, at least," grumbled Grandpa George. "I wouldn't mind at all if you'd pass one over, please."

Mrs. Bucket stepped in to take charge. "We'll all have some. That was very nice of Mr. Wonka." She held out her hand, and Charlie handed her the bag. Breaking up one of the bars, she handed the pieces around to each of them.

Grandpa Joe ate his piece thoughtfully, still looking at the ticket. "What did he do to it, Charlie?" he asked.

Charlie sat on the bed beside him, using his piece of chocolate as a pointer, showing his Grandpa Joe the change. "He added a '1' to make the date the '11th'." Its duties as a pointer over, Charlie ate the chocolate. It had been a good day for chocolate eating. The best of his life.

"You can hardly tell," said Grandpa Joe, examining it.

Charlie listened as his parents discussed the situation.

"Now, let's all stay calm," said his Mum, somewhat unnecessarily. Everyone was already calm, surprisingly so. "The first thing we have to decide is, should we let Charlie go to the Factory?" Charlie squirmed, but stayed quiet. "We all read about what happened to those other children who went on the tour, February first."

"Well," said his Dad, "In fairness to Mr. Wonka, we did all think those children were beastly when we saw the interviews they gave on television, and read about them in the newspaper. Maybe they really were beastly. There's not very much Mr. Wonka could have done about that, now, is there?"

"No, I suppose not," conceded his Mum.

"It's an incredible opportunity, one Charlie shouldn't miss," his Dad continued. There were nods of agreement all around.

Grandpa George couldn't resist adding his two cents. "He'd be crazier than Willy Wonka if he did!"

"Stop calling him crazy, Dad," said Mrs. Bucket, annoyed. "He'll be Charlie's host, and you're eating his chocolate. You're being rude."

Grandpa George ducked his head under the rebuke. "I'm just saying Charlie should go," he muttered. "Crazy isn't necessarily a bad thing."

As if on cue, Grandma Georgina sang out, "I love dragonflies!"

Mr. Bucket brought the conversation back on point. "Charlie, I'd like to ask you a question."

"Yes, Dad?"

"I know you must have talked with Mr. Wonka this evening, but was it a long conversation?" People might think Charlie an ordinary little boy, but his father knew that Charlie had an uncanny talent for reading people. If Charlie had had a chance to spend some time with Mr. Wonka, and liked him, it would go a long way toward alleviating the disquiet generated by Mr. Wonka's odd appearance, and standoffish behavior.

Charlie answered thoughtfully. "It was. We talked about a lot of things before he gave me the bar with the ticket in it. I really like him, and so does his friend, Terence."

"He has a friend? Called Terence? In town? Since when?" This was news to everyone, and the room was suddenly abuzz with speculation.

"Yeah, that's where I met him, in Terence's shop. They seemed like friends to me."

Mrs. Bucket had her own question. "Charlie, you keep saying Mr. Wonka gave you the ticket. Don't you mean you chose the bar with the ticket in it?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, Mum, I didn't. I couldn't have. Mr. Wonka knew which bar it was in all along. He had already put it in his pocket, to take back to the factory. That's where he took it from, when he decided I should have it."

"Decided you should have it!" That was all Grandpa Joe needed to hear. "Well, then, there it is! We're going!" he crowed. "Mr. Wonka himself picked our Charlie! There's no denying it. Have your dinner, and get to bed, Charlie! We've got the Factory to go to tomorrow!"

* * *

Except for the solitary light, shining softly in the back, the shop was dark. The sign said 'Closed', but the door wasn't locked. After Willy and Charlie had left, Terence had returned to his inventory, and that's where he was now; sitting on the floor, his back to the door, in the weak pool of light. The evening might be over; but he hoped it wasn't, and it wasn't long before he had his answer. The bells over the shop door jingled merrily.

"I could kill ya, ya know, for sending me down there," complained the high, familiar, flute-like voice.

Terence smiled to himself, making no effort to turn around. "I know you could, but you won't." From the sound, and the cold draft, his friend hadn't come any farther than the door.

"How do you know?"

"Because you're speaking figuratively, but more importantly, because it went well, and you're happy."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're standing in the doorway, talking to me. You could have gone straight home."

"And I planned to. But it went well. And I'm happy." The door gave a creak. "Good night, Terence. Thank you." The door closed, and he was gone.

"Good night, Willy." Terence laid down his inventory clipboard, preparing to switch off the light. "You're welcome."


	13. The Factory Gates

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Short and sweet, I wanted to get this up today, because... it's the eleventh... of February! But work beckons so there may be typos, etc... Thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you again to **dionne dance, Squirrela, **and **LiviahEternal **for your reviews._

* * *

The morning of February 11th dawned gloriously sunny. After the gloom of the previous week, it was a welcome change, but the snow that had threatened the previous day had finally fallen after midnight. The day's bright sunshine was gloriously reflecting off two inches of new snow.

The snow blanketing the town made it look fresh and clean, but it also made leaving early, and shoveling the sidewalk, a necessity. So Grandpa Joe and Charlie left the little Bucket house early for their rendezvous at the factory, and Terence shoveled the sidewalk in front of his shop.

Mr. and Mrs. Bucket stood in the snow by the gate, side-by-side, each with one arm around the waist of the other, sending their dear ones on their way with a wave. There had been some discussion about accompanying them to the Factory, but, for a reason they couldn't put their finger on, it didn't seem like the right thing to do. Mrs. Bucket had decided that keeping to her daily routine would distract her from how un-routine the day really was, and Mr. Bucket had welcomed the new snow as added revenue, shoveling snow being the only way to make ends meet, since Smilex had let him go. He would spend the day in that pursuit.

An uneasiness was nibbling around the edges of Mrs. Bucket's consciousness. Her son and her father-in-law were getting smaller as they moved up the hill, but the Factory loomed as large as ever.

"Are we doing the right thing, Noah?" she asked. "That Factory is so big, and they are so small."

Mr. Bucket gave her waist a squeeze. "It's no bigger than it was yesterday, Nora."

"But yesterday, it was just an idea you could think about, or not. Yesterday, it was just a part of the background. Today, it's real." She shifted on her feet, and stepped away. "I'm worried."

Mr. Bucket's face was distant, and his answer was strange, and disquieting. "That Factory sure did chew up and spit out those other children, didn't it." It wasn't a question. Mr. Bucket was daring to allow himself to imagine Willy Wonka's giant Chocolate Factory chewing up and spitting out the managers at Smilex who had let him go.

"That's not helping, dear," came Mrs. Bucket's dry response.

Mrs. Bucket was thinking about dominoes; how the choices you made day after day set them up, and how, from nowhere, something happened to knock them down. Sometimes it was only one that went down; sometimes it was more. Sometimes they all fell, and everything you ever thought, and everything you ever knew was true, changed forever. Charlie's Golden Ticket was such a small thing, but in her mind, she could hear the dominos, starting to fall.

Mr. Bucket looked down at his wife's concerned face; the face of the woman he treasured most in the world. He didn't know why, but he didn't feel concerned at all. Without another thought, he picked up his lady and spun with her in a complete circle, kicking up the snow in the process, and knocking loose a cabbage.

Mrs. Bucket laughed in spite of herself, as Mr. Bucket put her down. He hadn't been like this in ages. She scooped up the cabbage, to bring inside.

"It will all be fine, my dear," Mr. Bucket assured her. "Don't you worry about a thing. It will all be fine. I'm sure of it." He took her by the elbow, and they walked into the house.

* * *

Terence's shoveling, and Grandpa Joe's and Charlie's walking, intersected half-way up the hill.

Terence was resting on his shovel as he saw them approaching. He waved, and Charlie waved back. "Come on in," he called. "Warm up."

"That's Mr. Wonka's friend, Terence," Charlie whispered up to his Grandpa Joe, "and that's his shop."

"We can't miss that then, can we," Grandpa Joe, whispered back, patting Charlie's hand. "Let's go in. I could use the rest."

Once inside, Grandpa Joe and Terence introduced themselves, Terence discovering that Charlie's last name was 'Bucket', and Charlie discovering that Terence's last name was a secret. "If I tell you," Terence said, "you'll start calling me 'Mr.' won't you? If you don't know, you'll have to call me Terence. So, please, both of you, I'm just plain Terence."

Grandpa Joe smiled. "Okay, plain Terence, have it your way. Do you really know Mr. Wonka? I used to work for him."

Charlie wasn't really interested in last names, and he already knew the answer to the question his Grandpa had asked. He only wanted to know one thing, and he spoke right up. "Are you going to come with us to the factory?"

Terence held up both hands. "One at a time please," he said, convivially. "Age before less age." He turned to Grandpa Joe. "I knew Willy years ago, fairly well, but not for long. He helped me polish up my reading, and I can tell you that he is an _excellent_ teacher." He turned to Charlie. "The answer to your question is - not today. He warned me off pretty throughly before you arrived at the shop, and I didn't get an invitation when he stopped by on his way home, either. I think the better part of valor is to make myself scarce today. But I know you and your Grandpa will have a great time."

Charlie didn't understand. "He warned you off?"

Terence knew it would be hard to explain. "There was a lot of talk about walls, and doors, and doors being walls, and going out not being the same as coming in. It all meant don't ask, wait for an invitation. I don't take it personally, and neither should you. Willy does his best, and I've always found him a generous person. Where are your mother and father?"

Charlie squirmed. "They thought they shouldn't come. Mr. Wonka said bring one member of my family, and he wanted Grandpa Joe."

"Okay, then." Smiling, Terence gave Charlie a wink. "We'll let Willy have it his way today, shall we?"

Charlie nodded, and smiled back.

Terence looked at the time. "You folks better be on your way. You don't want to be late, Willy absolutely hates that! It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bucket."

"Oh no you don't" said Grandpa Joe, emphatically. "If we're to call you Terence, then you call me Joe."

"All right then, Joe. Stop by on your way home, if you like. My door will be open." And Terence waved them on their way.

* * *

Mr. Wonka sat in the red velvet chair the Oompa-Loompas had arranged for the 'Welcome Song' while he waited. Having declined the honor on February first, he felt it only fair to avail himself of the option today. Now, on the eleventh, the chair was the only vestige left of the earlier 'Welcome Song' display.

At 09:58, Mr. Wonka got up from chair, and opened the middle of the three main entry doors. At 09:59, he stepped outside and walked to the center of the snowy courtyard. At 10:00, he signaled that the main gates be partly opened. At 10:01, Charlie Bucket and his Grandpa Joe stepped on to the Factory grounds, hand in hand. By 10:02, the Factory gates were closed.

The small ceremony was accomplished with no announcement, and no fanfare. The few people passing when the gates opened were so surprised, they could only stop and stare. If Charlie had known the word, he would have thought it was all surreal. But he didn't know that word, so he just held his breath, barely able to believe where he was. Grandpa Joe squeezed Charlie's hand reassuringly, as he smiled down at him. It was all very remarkable, but Grandpa Joe had been here before.

Mr. Wonka looked just the way he had last night. He was wearing the same black top hat, the same black great-coat, the same purple gloves, and he carried the same glass, candy-filled cane. He stood with the cane centered in front of him, both hands resting on it. But today, in the bright sunshine, made all the brighter by the new snow, he was wearing the purple rimmed goggle-style sunglasses that Charlie hadn't seen the night before. Charlie thought Mr. Wonka looked kinda funny, but in a good way. It was the sunglasses that did it. Otherwise, he just looked old-fashioned.

Mr. Wonka was smiling, and he looked happy. Charlie had already noted the night before that the two didn't always go together. "Welcome to my Factory," Mr. Wonka said, as they approached him. "Charlie, it's good to see you again. I'd like to take this opportunity to point out, that if you don't breathe, you'll pass out." Agreeing with himself, Mr. Wonka added a quiet, "Yeah." Charlie exhaled with a laugh, as he heard Mr. Wonka say, "Grandpa Joe, sir, welcome back."

The pleasantries dispensed with, Mr. Wonka eyed the small crowd gathering at the gates. "Shall we go in before this side-show gets out of hand? Wonderful!" Mr. Wonka turned and hurried up the steps. Charlie and Grandpa Joe followed him inside.


	14. The Factory

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_**dionne dance: **__Grandma Georgina appreciates the credit, and I appreciate the reviews, all of them.__** Squirrela:** Real time was fun! Thank you. **LiviahEternal:** Thanks for following the story, and thanks for the reviews. _

* * *

Once inside, Charlie and Grandpa Joe found themselves at the beginning of a corridor that was softly lit with ambient light provided by a clerestory. It was a very long, tall corridor. The expression on Charlie's face made it plain that he thought it would take them all day to walk to the end of it, but Mr. Wonka knew better. Manipulating space with perspective was a wonderful game, and he liked to play.

"Just throw your coats anywhere," said Mr. Wonka, offhandedly, as he proceeded to throw his on the floor. But in mid-throw, the similarity to February first got the better of him, and Mr. Wonka changed his mind. Before the coat could hit the floor, he caught it by its collar, and twisting it back up into the air over his head, he launched it instead at the lone red and gold chair standing in the corridor. The coat fell on it like a drape. The sunglasses followed with a thump. "Or, you could put your coats on the chair, with mine." His voice sounded strained.

Grandpa Joe and Charlie exchanged a glance; something had just happened, though they couldn't have said quite what. They hung their coats on the chair. The factory was startlingly warm.

Charlie could see that Mr. Wonka's frock coat had changed color. Today it was bottle green. Charlie had doubts about whether it was the same hat now, too. The accent band on this top hat matched the bottle green of the frock coat. Charlie wondered if Mr. Wonka had a hat for every coat, or if he just changed the accent band on the same hat. Whatever the answer was, it would stay a mystery for now, because he wasn't going to ask.

"There is so much to see that we can't possibly see it all," said Mr. Wonka, sounding cheery again, but reserved, as he started leading them down the corridor. "Seeing it all would take weeks. So I'll just show you some of the more important rooms. We'll start with the Chocolate Room." Then he frowned. He'd been about to say, 'after all, it is a chocolate factory', but he'd bitten back the words. They were distasteful reminders of the rotten brats he'd had in on February first, and it was all he could do to prevent a shudder. Charlie and Grandpa Joe would not have understood.

The three continued walking in silence; Mr. Wonka wishing he could deviate from the agenda of the original tour sooner — but this really _was_ the best way to show off the Chocolate Room; Grandpa Joe comparing his former employer's former self to his current self, finding him changed, but, to Grandpa Joe's mind, not wanting to be; Charlie comparing the Mr. Wonka of yesterday to the Mr. Wonka of today, finding him confident, but more formal, cheerful, but more wary. Mr. Wonka was a puzzle.

The Factory was a puzzle, too. Charlie noticed that as they walked, the space had gotten smaller and smaller, and in almost no time, they were at the end of the seemingly endless hall.

A very tiny door stood in the wall at the end of the hall. It had a cunning little awning over it, and a tiny red carpet in front of it. It looked like the grand entrance of a mouse's house. They were all three bent over in the small space, with Mr. Wonka, violet eyes sparkling, looking at the two of them expectantly.

Charlie was at a loss. It was obvious that the door was too small for any of them, but Grandpa Joe, having worked for Mr. Wonka, knew just what to do. He looked expectantly back at Mr. Wonka, and said nothing, content to wait. In answer, Mr. Wonka smiled more broadly, and putting his hand on the wall, he gave it a push.

Charlie and Grandpa Joe found what happened next astounding. The entire wall opened, revealing a candy land of confectionary perfection. Mr. Wonka stepped quickly into the room, and was already striding away down a rock candy path. Had he not done so, Charlie doubted he could have moved. The splendor before him would have rooted him to the spot. But he didn't want to be left behind, so he grabbed Grandpa Joe's hand, and hurried after Mr. Wonka.

Mr. Wonka hadn't gone far. As soon as he heard their footsteps coming quickly up behind him, he stopped abruptly. Pausing for a count of three, he took two steps forward so they wouldn't run into him, and they didn't. He pivoted to face them. "This is where I mix the chocolate."

"It's beautiful," said Charlie, in his quiet whisper.

"Thanks for noticing, I think so, too," answered Mr. Wonka. There was no denying the smug happiness in his voice. "Let me show you the falls that do the mixing."

Mr. Wonka led them down toward the river that he explained was hot, melted chocolate of the finest quality, and on to a bridge near the falls. Stopping on the bridge, he explained the importance of the falls that mixed his chocolate, and its uniqueness in the industry. His Factory was the only one that mixed chocolate this way.

Charlie and Grandpa Joe could only stare. The fall was over 90 feet high, and the churning chocolate made a marvelous noise. There were pipes in the river at the base of the fall, and other pipes that traveled along the ceiling.

Mr. Wonka noticed Charlie noticing the pipes, and explained that they were used to suck up the chocolate, and take it wherever the Factory needed it. But what he also noticed was that Charlie was beginning to move in the slow, deliberate way he had used in Terence's shop the night before, and Grandpa Joe wasn't far behind him. All these sights were sapping the little energy they had. But Mr. Wonka had anticipated this development.

Giving them both a few more minutes on the bridge by the falls to catch their breath, Mr. Wonka said, "follow me, please," and started up a path that led around a little hill. Charlie and Grandpa Joe followed him, finding themselves in a little glade, with bright green swudge under their feet, and little yellow buttercups all around. Toffee apple trees grew on the edges of the glade, and in the center, was an elegant table, elegantly set, for three.

"I had so many things to do this morning I didn't have time for breakfast," Mr. Wonka said, as he pulled out one of the chairs. "Perhaps your preparations this morning put you in a similar situation. I thought we'd take a few minutes for a bit of brunch now."

"I don't mind if I do," said Grandpa Joe, looking at Mr. Wonka gratefully. He pulled out a chair for Charlie, and then one for himself.

Charlie thought the table looked lovely, and what was on it looked lovely, and the idea of brunch was lovely. He sat down at once.

Mr. Wonka held a plate of buttery croissants in his hand. He had taken one for himself, and now he offered the plate to Grandpa Joe and Charlie. They each took one.

"There's butter of course," Mr. Wonka said, "but I think there's enough of that in the recipe. You might like some jam though, just say what kind and I'll pass it to you. The raspberry is quite good; personally, I've had enough of snozzberry for a while. What would you like to drink? We have orange juice, coffee, milk, and naturally, hot chocolate. You can make chocolate milk! This hot chocolate comes directly from the river; it's very good. Charlie? Grandpa Joe, sir, please help yourself."

_Snozzberry? _Charlie had no idea what that was, but he was glad to hear Mr. Wonka say his name, because Mr. Wonka had been chattering along at such a brisk clip, Charlie doubted he could have gotten a word in edgewise. "Hot chocolate, please."

Charlie watched as Mr. Wonka poured hot chocolate into his cup and then into Charlie's. It was very thick and creamy looking, and it smelled delicious. As Charlie lifted the oyster-shell white porcelain cup off its saucer, he saw that the handle was the left hand curly cue of the trademark Wonka 'W'. The rest of the W curled around the cup in raised relief. It was an asymmetric design, and very clever.

Charlie took a sip of the hot chocolate, and forgot all about the 'W'. The taste of the chocolate was indescribably delicious, better even than the chocolate bars he'd had. He gave himself over to the experience, closing his eyes and savoring the myriad sensations he was feeling, a look of bliss on his face.

It became very quiet. Charlie opened his eyes to find both Grandpa Joe and Mr. Wonka studying him.

"Are you alright, Charlie?" Grandpa Joe asked.

Charlie felt embarrassed being the center of attention. "It's really good," was all he could manage to say.

Mr. Wonka laughed. He made a lot of chocolate, but he almost never got to see anyone, other than the Oompa-Loompas, enjoy it. It was an unexpected treat to see Charlie relish it so much now. "Have some jam," he said, placing the pot of raspberry jam in front of Charlie. "You'll like that, too."

Grandpa Joe looked rueful. It being such a long time since he'd had any, he had poured himself a cup of coffee. "Maybe I should have had the hot chocolate, too."

"Have some of everything," said Mr. Wonka, and they all did.

* * *

Brunch over, Charlie found his eyes on his crumb filled plate. The plate had the intertwined 'W' design that was over the main gate, in the same raised relief style as the cup, at the bottom of it. The tablecloth hadn't escaped the monogram either. In the tone-on-tone weave was the repeating 'W', in a floral style that, at first glance, looked like a Florentine vine design. Charlie traced the design with his finger.

"I have that on everything, don't I," said Mr. Wonka, watching.

"Um, yeah," said Charlie, squirming a little. Maybe he had been rude to draw attention to it, but it was too late now. "It seems like it."

"Know why?" Mr. Wonka was leaning forward intently.

Charlie shook his head. So did Grandpa Joe. He'd always wondered.

"When you see that 'W', what do you think of?"

"Wonka," answered Charlie.

"What does that make you think of?"

"Candy and chocolate," answered Charlie.

"Anything else?"

"No," said Charlie.

"That's why." Willy leaned back in his chair contentedly. He could see that neither Charlie nor Grandpa Joe had any idea what he was talking about. But he knew that once the Wonka name had meant excellence in dentistry in this town. Now it meant excellence in candy making, all over the world. It meant that he had effectively destroyed his pater's name, while promoting his own. The irony that it was the same name only made the accomplishment more sweet.

The thought put him in an excellent mood. He'd been thinking of himself as 'Mr. Wonka' all morning, to try on how that must seem to Charlie, but it was time to give it up. He was Willy to people he liked, and if they wanted to call him something else, fine, he'd translate it back to 'Willy' for them in his head. The other way was too confining, too restrictive, and worst of all, only one letter away from dear old... Oops… that's far enough down that path; he quickly blanked his mind.

"Mr. Wonka?"

There it was again - this time from Grandpa Joe. He laughed inwardly. Joe. He wasn't _his _Grandpa. "Yes?"

"The newspaper said everything in this room is edible. Is that so?"

"So it is," answered Willy, proudly, "but we needed to start here, because unlike nearly everything on this table, everything in this room is not high in potassium, magnesium, or phosphorus combinations. But cabbage is! Did you know that cabbage contains protein? It's an amazing food." Resting his elbow on the table, he put his chin in his hand, curling his gloved fingers along his cheek. "Maybe I can make a cabbage candy."

Charlie had no idea what had taken place in the last few minutes, but the formal Willy Wonka of this morning was gone, and the Willy Wonka he had met in the shop the night before was back. Relieved, he sighed, "If you do, it will be safe from me."

Willy laughed again. "It's only a thought." Sitting up, he gestured expansively at the rest of the room. "You're free to look around. Help yourselves to anything you'd like to try. That includes the river, but don't touch it. For starters, it's hot. For finishers, it goes into what I sell, so it has to stay pure. If the river's your fancy, I have mugs. One mug, one dip! I have lots of mugs!"

Willy returned his elbow to the table, and his chin to his hand, and drifted off into cabbage candy possibilities. But he drifted back almost right away, because the movement away from the table he had expected, hadn't happened. Charlie and Grandpa Joe were still sitting. "Really…," he began, but stopped and looked to his left when he saw that's where _they_ were looking.

A small man, not more than two feet tall, dressed in a grey Nehru jacket and black trousers, stood beside his chair. "Ah!" said Willy, straightening up again. "Eshle!" Willy looked him up and down for a minute. "I like your threads today, and please give my compliments to Nôtla, if you see him before I do, brunch was excellent! Oh wait, where are my manners?"

Eshle started to answer, but Willy jumped back in before he could. "Don't answer that, it was rhetorical, we all know I don't have any, anyway, Eshle, this is Charlie Bucket and his Grandpa Joe. Grandpa Joe, sir, Charlie, this is Eshle, my chief Oompa-Loompa, and right-hand man. He oversees the running of the Factory." That wasn't enough. "Eshle is the person who makes it possible for me to lose all track of time in the Inventing Room, for hours or days, and," Willy tilted his head, grinning slyly, "give tours."

Eshle, laughing, bowed at the waist, his arms crossed at the wrists against his chest, hands touching his shoulders. The bow complete, he answered, ticking off each point on his fingers, "Thank you, I will, he'll be glad you liked it, buried under your excitement, of course you do," he turned to face the two guests, "I'm very pleased to meet you Grandpa Joe, and likewise, you Charlie," and then turned back to his boss, "Willy, you exaggerate, it's all in a, if I may say so, rewarding day's work."

Eshle finished, and Willy returned the salute, each of them grinning at the other for a minute. They both knew the effort put in by everyone last night to make this look effortless today. What with Terence, the ticket, THE BOY, and the time, this was a tour on quite short notice, and a tour that was a little different — it wasn't about weeding out, it was about winning over. The participants were a little different, too — there were energy concerns to think about; a menu to plan that wouldn't result in convulsions, or worse; adjustments to make to the Great Glass Elevator - it had been a long night.

Watching the exchange, Grandpa Joe couldn't help but think what a tragedy it had been for the town to lose this particular employer.

Willy became slightly more serious. "How goes it with the yacht?" he asked.

"Sadly," Eshle answered, "the bottom paint is not quite dry, so unfortunately, the yacht isn't ready today, as we'd hoped."

The way Eshle said it, Charlie couldn't tell if the hope had been that the boat not be ready, or ready. He looked to Mr. Wonka's reaction, which was perfectly nonchalant. It must be the former.

"Thanks for the update, Eshle. If you need me, you know where to find me."

Eshle, Charlie, and Grandpa Joe completed the social pleasantries, and with bows all around, Eshle left to resume his other duties.

Willy watched Eshle's retreating form and then turned back to Charlie and Grandpa Joe. "The other children…"

Charlie thought Mr. Wonka looked like he wanted to spit.

"…took a trip down the river in the yacht, which, by the way, I made from a boiled sweet. A very large boiled sweet. The bottom paint, which dries clear, is what keeps it from melting. It's an extremely high concentration of the ingredient I use to keep the ice cream from going all runny in the sun." With both elbows on the table, he made a steeple with his fingers. "But it doesn't last forever, and the new coat isn't any good unless it has time to cure. So... no yacht today." Willy waved the fingers of one hand in the air. "So, no big deal - we'll use the Great Glass Elevator, instead. Yeah. But, right this minute," he leaned toward them both, "you two _still_ haven't seen this room properly… so go ahead... go see it... scoot!"

Willy's hands backed up his words as he gestured them away from the table, so off they went, Charlie holding tightly to his Grandpa's hand.


	15. The Factory Explained

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_This Factory is a lot bigger than I think it is! That aside, __**dionne dance:** Thanks, I'm beginning to miss Terence myself.__** Squirrela: **Thanks for your thoughtful observations. **LiviahEternal:** Hot chocolate through the screen; that would be nice!_

* * *

As Charlie and Grandpa Joe wandered starry-eyed to explore the Chocolate room, Willy watched from the table, his eyes desultory, the expression on his face unreadable. They had headed toward the bon-bon forest, away from the river. An interesting choice. Giving a signal with his hand, he watched until they were out of sight.

When they were, he pushed back his chair, stood up, and began collecting the dishes and platters from the table. As he did, six or seven Oompa-Loompas materialized from the margins of the glade, taking the items as he handed them down. When he handed down the plate that had been his, a twitter of tittering erupted. It broke his train of thought.

"What?" he said mildly, looking down, his attention drawn to them. In answer, they put a lid on their laughter, exchanging glances with one another as they did so. But Willy, having seen their focus, knew the answer he'd wanted. "Yeah, yeah, fine, you can tell Doris I ate something," he said ruefully, giving in at the same time. "And..." one finger in the air now, "not just _some_ of the somethings," smiling, now that the rhythm was catching him, "but some of almost _all_ of the somethings that were on the table!" Doris was always after him to eat more, and she was too good an administrator not to let her have her say.

Seven expectant little Oompa-Loompa faces continued to stare up at him. They weren't gonna quit till they got an answer as to 'why'. Knitting his brows together, perplexed they couldn't guess, Willy said simply, "I had to set an example."

This brought fresh peals of laughter from the Oompa-Loompas, and they started singing:

_Brunch was had this awesome day,_  
_Nôtla fixed some lovely trays._  
_Doris wants a full report,_  
_and so we will, or risk retort._  
_While she's convinced she_  
_Knows what's best,_  
_We few here, clean up the rest._  
_Still and all, we have to say,_  
_It's Willy Wonka who'll get his way._

"Cut that out," said Willy, laughing himself, trying to sound very stern, and failing miserably. "I won't get anything if people hear you singing that." But he got his way, because they good-naturedly stopped singing, finished clearing the table, and removed all evidence of the brunch.

* * *

The Buckets were nowhere to be seen, but Willy had earlier put them under covert Oompa-Loompa surveillance, so he wasn't concerned. He wanted them to feel free to see what they liked, without the owner breathing down their necks every minute. So Willy strolled down to the bank near the Fall, and sat cross-legged on the swudge. It was very soothing to watch the chocolate splash about at the base of the Fall, a bit like watching the flickering of a fire; the pattern was largely predictable, but the nuances were infinite.

In short order, Willy heard footsteps approaching. Too heavy for an Oompa-Loompa, and too light for Joe, that left Charlie. Testing his assumption, he said, without turning around, "Charlie."

"Mr. Wonka."

He was right. This one had been easy, but there was satisfaction in knowing that Terence wasn't the only person who could make deductions. Twisting around, Willy asked, "Where is your Grandpa?"

"He's talking to the two Oompa-Loompas you sent to show us around. That was very nice of you," answered Charlie.

"Wasn't it though," said Willy dryly, deciding covert Oompa-Loompa surveillance might need some work. With a shrug, he let it go; the overt variety was working well enough.

"They're showing him the candies they like the best, in hidden areas they know about." Charlie was enthusiastic. "It's great. He's really enjoying it."

"And you?"

"I think you know more than they do."

Looking pleased, Willy gestured to a spot near him. "Debatable, but sit down. What would you like to know?"

Charlie sat down. "How many times do you mix the chocolate before you send it out to the rest of the factory?"

Willy's eyes narrowed for a second, until he reminded himself that someone who asked perceptive questions like this one, was exactly who he was looking for. But he answered the question with another question. "What makes you think I do?"

Charlie pointed to a set of pipes, not easy to see through the chocolate, positioned behind the Fall. "Those pipes look like they only go back to the top."

Willy was amused. "And so they do, and so I do, depending on what I'm planning to use the chocolate for. I don't make everything all the time, I run batches, and it's a real balancing act not to run short of things. Usually, this Fall, one time, is enough to do the trick, because I do specialized mixing with other ingredients at the destination room. But there are times, very light milk chocolate for example, when a few more trips over this Fall speeds things along."

The explanation over, they sat together, companionably, watching the Fall.

"Mr. Wonka?"

"Yeah?" came the dreamy reply.

"Did you want to show us any more of your factory?"

Freezing in place for a heartbeat, Mr. Wonka next fell over laughing, losing his hat in the process. Charlie didn't think what he'd asked was that funny, but it was hard to be mad at Mr. Wonka, because his high spirits were infectious.

Willy kept laughing, but he quickly sat back up, retrieved his hat, put it back on, stopped laughing and said, "I'm sorry, I forgot this was a tour. It feels more like a visit." He looked at Charlie a little sheepishly. "I told Terence, before you got to the shop, that I was done with tours, and I guess I meant it. What do you want to see next?"

Charlie definitely wasn't mad now. It was clear Mr. Wonka was laughing at himself, and Mr. Wonka had just called this a 'visit', which suggested possible future visits. Wouldn't that be something! Still, he had no idea what to answer. How could he know what to ask to see next, never having been here before? But Mr. Wonka was ahead of him.

"Okay, that was silly of me. You're new to the scene, how would you know?" Willy smiled. "Come on, and I'll show you the selection."

Getting up, Willy walked toward the edge of the room, his eyes searching the candyscape for some of his workers. He caught the eye of one of them almost immediately, and they began exchanging rapid hand signals. Satisfied, Willy next checked to make sure Charlie was keeping up. He was.

Reaching the edge of the room, Willy stood before the Great Glass Elevator. "Charlie, this is the Great Glass Elevator. Great Glass, this is Charlie."

Charlie looked from Mr. Wonka to the Elevator. It wasn't everyday Charlie got an introduction to a machine, but as he had, he thought he'd better be polite. "Pleased to meet you," he said, tentatively. Mr. Wonka did not laugh; in fact, he nodded his approval.

The Great Glass Elevator was one of Willy's favorite toys.

"This elevator can take you to almost every room in the Factory," Willy stated grandly. "You just push any button, and off you go. Up, down, sideways, slantways, longways - any way that will get you there fastest."

"You mean the route can change depending on where you are?" asked Charlie.

"You betcha," answered Willy. "You can even take the square route, or the cubed route, if that's what you want!" Willy's last comment sent him off into giggles again, as he pushed the button that opened the doors. He stepped in, and Charlie followed.

It was a big space, and everywhere you looked was glass, so you could see what was going by you in any direction. The walls, all of them, were covered with buttons, each neatly labeled. Charlie wasn't tall enough to read them all, but there were plenty to read, even at his height, and so he got started. After a few minutes, he had a thought.

"If your factory was a library, Mr. Wonka, this elevator would be its card catalogue," Charlie observed.

Willy raised his eyebrows as he considered this. Now there was a 'novel' thought. "So it could," he said, slowly.

"I could read the names of the rooms I think are interesting, and you could tell me about them."

"I could," said Willy, misgivings creeping into his voice.

"You could give an entire tour of your factory, sitting right here."

This idea didn't sit well with Willy, in the least. Charlie _seeing_ the Factory was the point of this exercise. "No, I could _tell_ an entire tour of my Factory that way, but that wouldn't be any fun at all. Reading is peachy, and so is storytelling, but they're no substitute for the real thing. Besides, one of the neatest things about this Factory, is zipping around it, in this Elevator. Don't you want to see more of the Factory?"

Charlie thought Mr. Wonka's last question sounded anxious, and Charlie was beginning to feel that way.

"Hey you two!" came a happy cry. It was Grandpa Joe, with his three Oompa-Loompa escort. "When are you gonna show us more of your factory, Mr. Wonka?" Grandpa Joe had spent the last twenty minutes sampling the most delicious, subtly flavored, exotic candies he had ever had, none of which Wonka sold to the public - not that he could have bought any if they were - and he was feeling daring.

Willy breathed a sigh of relief that puffed out his cheeks, thankful for the Oompa-Loompa sign language he had used earlier to ask that Joe be brought to the Great Glass Elevator. Charlie followed with one of his own. Charlie hadn't meant to suggest they stay here, and Willy hadn't meant to ask his last question, lest the answer be 'no'; both considered that Grandpa Joe's arrival had averted a possible communications catastrophe.

"That's the topic, and this is the transportation," chirped Willy, pointing and beckoning with his cane. "Come on in."

Grandpa Joe stepped into the elevator, his head on a swivel as he took in all the buttons. "What are all these?" he asked.

Willy gestured to the walls. "This is the Factory's card catalogue," he answered, his eyes on Charlie. "Just read out any name, and I'll either tell you about it, or take you to see it." Charlie looked pleased. "Who wants to start?"

"I will," said Grandpa Joe, watching Charlie hesitate. He scanned one of the walls, and Charlie scanned the one next to it. "How about 'Fudge Mountain'?"

"We'll see that." Willy had closed his eyes.

"'Exploding Candy'?" This from Charlie.

"We'll see that."

"'Eatable Marshmallow pillows'? 'Lickable Wallpaper'?" Charlie again.

"That's two," said Willy, his eyes still closed. "The pillows are still in work. I'm wondering if they shouldn't have an inedible core. If you ate it all, what would you do for a pillow? The Lickable Wallpaper is just what it sounds like. Fruit is the theme; you lick the picture of the fruit, and that's what you taste."

"They sound like an indoor version of the Chocolate Room," said Charlie. "You could finish it off with eatable windows."

Willy opened his eyes, to see Charlie engrossed in looking at more buttons. He didn't answer.

"Spotty Powder?" Grandpa Joe chimed in.

Willy shifted on his feet, restless. "Best left for another time." Settling again, Willy closed his eyes.

"Black Box of Frogs?" Charlie sounded very curious.

With his eyes still closed, Willy smiled. "Have you ever heard people say, when their voice sounds funny, that they have a frog in their throat? That gave me an idea for candies that give you a different sounding voice, for exactly half an hour. Very high, or very low, or like the voice of a celebrity - Morgan Freeman or Emma Thompson, for example. It's for people who talk on the radio - DJs, or police dispatchers, or taxi dispatchers, or air traffic controllers, or pilots." He started giggling. "Those people have what they say recorded in 'black boxes', hence the name - 'Black Box of Frogs'" He opened his eyes and looked mischievously from one to the other. "They work perfectly, and they make you sound very funny, but they're never gonna go anywhere, because the various regulatory agencies refuse to get on board. No sense of humor what...so...ever!" Still smiling, he closed his eyes again. "Next!" This was fun.

Charlie was ready. "Square Candies that Look Round?"

"Ohhhh..." Willy began, only to have his voice trail off. Charlie and Grandpa Joe were both taken off-guard as Willy's eyes snapped open. In a spot-on imitation of Grandma Georgina's voice, he breathed, "I love those," and his gloved finger snaked out, and pushed that button.

The Great Glass Elevator jumped to life. It lifted straight toward the high ceiling of the Chocolate Room, gathering speed.

"Yikes," cried Willy, leaping toward the Elevator wall, "I should have warned you Grandpa Joe, sir, in a minute this Elevator is gonna go sideways! Quick! Sit on this jump seat!" His hand brought down a glass seat that had, until now, been flush with the wall, blending in.

Grandpa Joe didn't ask questions - he sat, and just in time! The Elevator changed course and went sideways, throwing Charlie, and Willy, off-balance. Willy recovered instantaneously, but Charlie would have taken a header to the floor had Willy not dropped a hand on his shoulder, bodily holding him up.

Surprised, Charlie looked up at Mr. Wonka, to thank him. He wouldn't have guessed that Mr. Wonka had such a strong grip. But Mr. Wonka was staring straight ahead, at a point in the far distance, withdrawing his hand the second Charlie regained his balance.

"The trick to this Elevator," Willy said in a measured way, placing both hands on the top of his cane, "is _not_ to try to keep your balance. The changes are too rapid for that. The trick is to _regain_ your balance, as quickly as possible. If you do it quickly enough, no one will ever know you lost it." He shot a cursory sideways glance in their direction. "The trick to that, is to pay close attention to what is happening RIGHT NOW, stay flexible, and take swift action."

"Sounds like life," said Grandpa Joe.

Willy glanced at Joe before he finally turned back to Charlie. "It takes practice, Charlie, and it's easier with three-point contact." With a wry smile, he lifted the point of his cane, briefly, from the floor. "There's another jump seat, if you'd like."

Charlie shook his head. He had moved to his Grandpa's side, resting his hand on his Grandpa's shoulder, and that was all the three-point contact he needed. He didn't want to sit down if Mr. Wonka didn't.

The Elevator continued on its way, twisting and turning, speeding up and slowing down, giving Charlie his first taste of a roller-coaster ride. By the time it stopped at their destination, all three were thoroughly enjoying themselves. As they disembarked, Willy didn't mention that, last night, he had adjusted the Great Glass Elevator to one-third its usual speed.


	16. The Factory Explored

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_I'm writing like a gerbil shredding __newsprint, but the re-writing takes forever. Thank you readers, and thank you reviewers: __**dionne dance:** You are so right - too few people in the Great Glass on this go round to let folks get thrown around; __**Squirrela: **I think it does - the Oompa-Loompas are so much more trusting than Willy. Thank you. **LiviahEternal:** Not to worry, the adjustments to the Great Glass are only temporary._

* * *

Charlie and Grandpa Joe stepped out of the Great Glass Elevator, finding themselves in a corridor. They couldn't tell how long it was, because the corridor curved away in both directions. Mr. Wonka was holding a finger to his lips, to indicate quiet.

"Let's be stealthy," Willy whispered, as he crept toward the door on the other side, and a little way down the corridor, motioning for them to follow him.

Over the door was a sign that read 'Square Candies that Look Round'. Having crept up to it, Charlie and Grandpa Joe peered through the glass that made up the top half of the door. What they saw were square candies that looked... square.

Arranged in rows on a long table in the middle of the room, the square candies that looked square could easily, except for their size, have been mistaken for sugar cubes. The size of each sugar cube-esque candy was more like four sugar cubes, stacked two by two.

Oompa-Loompas sat on benches along the edges of the table, painting a line face on one side of each square. The eyes were the largest feature, and took up most of the surface.

"Aren't they wonderful?" crowed Willy, in a whisper, which is not an easy thing to do. Grandpa Joe and Charlie just stood there, and Willy couldn't resist poking them, gently, with the top of his cane. Still whispering, Willy tried again. "Aren't they charming?"

Grandpa Joe and Charlie exchanged looks, at a loss to know what to say.

Willy decided to take pity on them; at least they were giving politeness a try, though they clearly weren't getting the joke. As softly as he could, he said, "'Kay, then, you have all the clues you need standing right here, but I'll give you a demonstration. Watch this!"

With all semblance of quiet gone, Willy put his hand on the door knob, giving it a good rattle as he turned it, and opened the door. When he did, all the little eyes, on all the little square faces, looked round.

Grandpa Joe watched the spectacle, and got the joke. With Charlie looking on, he gave a hearty laugh, slapping his thigh at the same time. "Well, I'll be! Square candies that look round! How'd you do that?"

Willy beamed with pleasure and pride, as he answered, "That's proprietary, but sound wave vibration is key."

The Oompa-Loompas had looked round too, and Willy gave them a wave. "Hey guys," he said, "This is Charlie Bucket, and his Grandpa Joe. Don't mind us, but I wanted to show them these."

The Oompa-Loompas tee-heed, some returned the wave, and all of them, by and by, resumed their face painting duties.

The Oompa-Loompas were as interesting as the candies. Charlie hadn't seen so many together before; he found it remarkable how alike they all looked. Charlie and Grandpa Joe walked around the table, watching the eyes on the square candies follow them. Charlie had an idea. By moving back and forth, he could make the candy eyes seem to dance. It was fun, but Charlie wondered if this counted as playing with your food.

Willy had stayed by the door, and now he beckoned them to rejoin him in the corridor.

Once there, Charlie asked, "Are you going to sell them? What do they taste like?"

Willy had started to walk down the corridor, but Charlie's question stopped him. "I should have offered you one, shouldn't I? Drat to that!" Hefting his cane, he threw it from one hand to the other, and held it there. "Shall we go back? Would you like one?"

"No, that's okay," answered Charlie. "I don't think I could eat one of those little faces."

"Great minds," came the off-hand reply from Willy, lowering the cane, and resuming the walk. "I can't eat 'em, and I don't want to sell 'em, for that reason, either."

Charlie and Grandpa Joe trailed after him.

"Why do you make them, then?" asked Grandpa Joe, as politely as he could, marveling that, in all the years he had worked for Willy Wonka, he had never seen the man forget himself enough, in company, to hear him say anything remotely like 'drat' before. Really, nearly everything Mr. Wonka said to Charlie sounded very unguarded, something Grandpa Joe had never found the man to be.

"Well, the Oompa-Loompas don't share my squeamishness," Willy answered, obligingly. "They eat 'em by the caseload! Those Squares are yummy! They have a hard, sugary outside, and a creamy, snozzberry filling," - like a little brain, surrounded by a little skull - but Willy, glancing back at them, left these comparisons unspoken. It occurred to him they might not know what a snozzberry tasted like. "A snozzberry, if you're wondering, tastes the way honeysuckle smells. But I also make them because I like the game."

"The game?" asked Charlie.

"The Oompa-Loompas scatter them all over the Factory. The first part of the game is to find them. The second part is to get next to one without it looking at you. So far, I can find them, no problem, but I've never been able to get next to one without the eyes looking at me. The day I can will be the day the game starts to get boring. When I can do it ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I won't play anymore." Willy shrugged his shoulders. "Games you always win become dull."

"Can the Oompa-Loompas do it?" Charlie wanted to know.

"I far as I know, no one's been able to do it. It's a challenging game." He gave Charlie a sidelong look. "Someone just gave me a good idea, though. Maybe I'll change the game to a dance contest; maybe see if the eyes can't keep up!" Ignoring Charlie's blush of happiness, he stopped in front of the Great Glass Elevator, exclaiming, "Let's tour!" as he stepped in.

* * *

Willy charted a leisurely course. The Buckets were suitably impressed with Fudge Mountain - who wouldn't be - and passing high above the action, Exploding Candy was equally well received. Willy would have liked to have gotten into the thick of it, as he had on the previous tour, but with the Great Glass de-rated, he didn't want to risk being hit. En-route to the Administrative Offices, they passed the pink sheep.

"What are your plans for all that pink wool?" asked Charlie.

"Search me," was the monotone reply. "I had the wool over my eyes when I came up with this one." Willy brightened. "Hey! I could call this room 'Pink Eye'." He giggled, glancing over at them. Grandpa Joe looked dubious, and Charlie's expression was blank. Pink Eye was a disease. "Or not," Willy conceded, amused.

They had reached the Administrative Offices, passing Doris' desk as the Elevator descended. "Oh, there's Doris!" Willy exclaimed. Doris, seated at a desk with a plaque that said 'Taste Accounting' on it, returned Willy's energetic wave, adding a thumbs up and an 'air' fist bump of her own, as her praise for the brunch. Willy grinned, returning the 'air' fist bump.

For many reasons, Television Chocolate was the next stop. In no particular order, Willy loved wearing the goggle sunglasses required by the room - they were such a good look; it was a neat invention that he might decide to mothball; it would result in more chocolate for the Buckets to eat; and it would give Charlie something to tell him, when Terence asked about it. Willy entered the room ahead of the Buckets, a sly smile on his face.

The demonstration Willy, and the Oompa-Loompas in the room, treated them to - a chocolate bar, broken up into millions of itty-bitty pieces, and sent through the air into a television, was as impressive as it was uneventful. Grandpa Joe was positively astounded by it, and Charlie was no less amazed. The chocolate bar, plucked from the television, was shared by all - Willy nibbling on one piece, while Charlie and Grandpa Joe enjoyed the rest.

His piece finished, Willy began to neatly fold the wrapper he had used to hold it, becoming motionless as a part of that wrapper caught his eye. For half a moment, Willy thought he might laugh, but the sound died in his throat.

Mr. Wonka's sudden lack of activity attracted Charlie's attention. As he watched, Mr. Wonka faced the room, his face expressionless. Some of the Oompa-Loompas began to whisper to one another; all looked concerned. Mr. Wonka waited until the room was quiet. He held the wrapper between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, the hand positioned as high as his ear, but away from his head. When he spoke, his voice was very mild, and very quiet. "This joke," he said, his voice silky, "would have been _so_ much funnier, had I never seen it." Using the rest of his fingers, he crumpled the wrapper into a tight ball. When the ball was as tight as he could make it, he languidly opened his fingers, disdainfully letting it fall to the floor behind him. "Let's get a move on," he said, in the same mild voice, to Charlie and Grandpa Joe, and he headed for the door.

Too curious to let it go, Charlie scooped up the wrapper as he passed it, putting it in his pocket. The Oompa-Loompas looked as if they wanted to disappear into the floor.

In the Elevator, there was silence. The way Mr. Wonka looked, if anything disturbed him now, the tour would be over. Charlie held his Grandpa's hand, and they both held very still.

"Let's see something else," Willy finally said, and he pushed a button, marked 'Green, Green, the Rushes Grow'. The Elevator started down.

* * *

The destination was farther down then they had yet been, and after being quiet, Willy used the remaining time to describe the layout of the factory. "With a few exceptions, all the things you'd usually find, in a usual factory, I tried to put above ground. Production lines, packaging, offices, living quarters, that kind of thing - which means, with a few exceptions, all the really important parts of this Factory are below ground. Sometimes far below ground, and that's where we're going now." Willy had started off slowly, but as he talked, the animation so characteristic of him, began to return. "I have a Rock Candy Mine ten thousand feet down, but this time, we won't go that far! We'll just go - here!"

The Elevator stopped, and they stepped out into an enormous cavern, filled with grass and trees, and plants and bushes, of all types and descriptions - but unlike the Chocolate Room, these plants were not made of candy. Neither were the various animals, grazing unfenced, in the underground landscape.

"The light is artificial, of course," explained Willy, "but it is the same spectrum as the Sun. With _extremely_ few exceptions, I grow everything we need at this Factory, in this Factory, in greenhouses, and this is one of them - pasture, more precisely."

"One of them..." marveled Grandpa Joe. "This is huge! The electricity alone must be staggering!"

To Charlie's great relief, Mr. Wonka laughed - a real laugh.

"Yeah! Electricity! I'd be out of business if I had to pay for it, but the other thing you always find underground is water. A simple redirection of water over the right height drop is enough to power a turbine, or in this case, lots of turbines." He laughed again. "I do like a waterfall! All the energy I use is hydro-electric, generated right here on the premises." He pursed his lips for a minute. "Well, there's a lot of geo-thermal going on here, too."

Charlie took a moment to take it all in. Turning to Mr. Wonka, he said, "It's amazing how much of the outside you have inside!"

"Yeah," said Willy smugly, rocking on his heels, one hand twirling his cane behind his back, catching it with the other hand, holding it parallel to the ground. "Not too much of a problem being stuck inside _here_ with a sprained ankle, don't cha agree?"

Charlie laughed. He remembered what he said the evening before, about not liking being stuck inside. Who knew Mr. Wonka had worried about that? "Yes, Mr. Wonka, I agree," Charlie answered, feigning solemnity, but meaning it all the same.

"Good," said Willy, nodding his head. His fingers made that 'off-with-you' gesture. "Take a stroll, if you like. The animals won't bother you; there are no "lions, or tigers, or bears, oh, my!" - down here." Willy, finding his last comments particularly amusing, promptly dissolved into giggles.

Charlie took him up on the offer, chuckling as he went, thinking Willy could be pretty silly - you definitely couldn't think of him as 'Mr. Wonka' when he was acting like that - but Grandpa Joe elected to stay put, parking himself on an outcropping of rock, instead. "Did you make all this Mr. Wonka?"

Pulling himself together, Willy leaned on a rock nearby, shaking his head. "No way! I was fortunate to discover a labyrinth of caverns deep under my Factory. I've had to hollow out some parts, and modify others, but for the most part, it is 'au natural'. Very useful." He pulled out his watch, frowning at the time. "Dear me, I think it's time to resurface! Come on, people!"

The stroll cut short, Charlie trotted over, and when they were all inside the Great Glass Elevator, Willy told Charlie to push the button he indicated. It was marked 'Inventing Room', and Charlie pushed it.


	17. The Factory Farewell

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Thank you readers, and thank you reviewers: __**dionne dance:** Thanks for your wonderful reviews! I'm afraid I'm still milking the wrapper here; __**Squirrela: **I think it's because Charlie sees the Factory the way Willy would, if he were seeing it for the first time. Thank you. **LiviahEternal:** I agree with that! I'd be camped outside the gates. Merci. **Dysphasia:** I consider it a plus you've returned from a land minus WwW. Thanks, and welcome back.  
_

* * *

Ding! The doors of the Great Glass Elevator slid open.

Charlie and Grandpa Joe could only stand back as Mr. Wonka swept past them into the Inventing Room. There was no other way to describe it. Mr. Wonka swept into the Inventing Room as if he owned it - and he did - in every sense of the word. There was no hesitancy about him, no nervousness, no subtle undercurrent of anxiety, only confidence, radiating from his entire being. The change in his demeanor was striking; so striking, that Charlie wondered briefly if Mr. Wonka remembered they were there.

He did. Willy turned to face the Elevator, and with a sweeping bow, he ushered them in. "This is the Inventing Room," he announced, with dignity, "the most important room the Factory. Welcome!"

Charlie and Grandpa Joe stepped from the Elevator. The room was vast, with projects on-going in every corner of it, machinery and equipment sprawling about, even reaching toward the high ceiling, catwalks providing access wherever needed. "Stay put!" Charlie heard Mr. Wonka say, and he was happy to do just that. The Inventing Room was overwhelming.

Satisfied Grandpa Joe and Charlie were properly stationary for the moment, Willy took off on a lap around the room. Checking this, peering there, adjusting that, he conferred hastily with the Oompa-Loompas on hand, who quickly brought him up to speed on the day's developments. There hadn't been many — the room was generally in a holding pattern while he was away from it. Content, he returned to his guests.

"I call this the Inventing Room, but I suppose a more apt name might be the Not Invented Yet Room," Willy explained. Gesturing to the room, he said, "Everything happening here is a work in progress - puzzles whose pieces I have yet to put in place, some puzzles whose pieces I have yet to even _find_, …but that, dear visitors, is the very best thing about it!" Willy was happily in his element. "Once I have all the pieces, in the right order, if I like the result, it leaves here, and goes into testing. If it gets past that, it goes into production. Or it doesn't — if I think it's more trouble than it's worth."

"More trouble than it's worth?" questioned Grandpa Joe.

"Yeah, more trouble than it's worth," Willy answered, sounding blasé. "Like Fizzy Lifting Drinks."

"Fizzy Lifting Drinks?" echoed Grandpa Joe.

Charlie remembered seeing that button in the Great Glass Elevator. It was going to be the next room he asked about if the 'card catalogue' game had started up again.

"A pre-requisite for enjoying Fizzy Lifting Drinks," said Willy, somewhat huffily, "is common sense, a trait I find most _un_-common in the world these days, the behavior of the people on the February First tour being the most recent example I have to make that point." He drew his frock coat more closely about himself, as if something had chilled him. "Another pre-requisite is a skill western cultures view as a sign of rudeness and eastern cultures view as a sign of good manners. There'd be arguing all over the world about the merits of the necessary technique, and I think I've already established that I hate arguing. So there it is, Fizzy Lifting Drinks stay exclusively inside these walls."

Willy stopped talking, only to notice that his guests looked a little shell-shocked. Putting his gloved hand over his mouth, he managed to look chagrined. But his eyes were alive with mischief, as he said, "Oops, somebody get me off this soapbox! My, my, but I do run on. 'Kay, then, the lecture's over, go look around the room, but if I were you," he looked directly at Charlie, "I wouldn't try _anything_."

Charlie unflinchingly met Mr. Wonka's gaze, and squeezing his Grandpa's hand, they both stayed put.

Willy tilted his head, his eyes narrowing.

"Mr. Wonka," queried Charlie, his voice strong, "would you take us around the room and tell us what all these things are?"

"Yes!" came the exuberant answer. Willy smiled, tossing his cane into the air and catching it, pleased at Charlie's asking, an excellent display of common sense, from an astute boy. "It would be my absolute delight!"

And he did, and it was.

* * *

The penultimate thing Willy showed them, was the large vat of water in the middle of the room. In it, were small round balls, of various colors, being shot through the water by machinery. Also in the tank, were Oompa-Loompas. The Oompa-Loompas, in snorkel gear, were randomly catching some of the balls, and returning others from the floor of the tank to be shot through the machinery again.

"These," Willy told them, as Charlie looked through a viewing port in the side of the tank, and Willy and Grandpa Joe leaned over the top, "are Everlasting Gobstoppers. You can suck on them all year, and they never get any smaller. At least they haven't so far."

"If they never get any smaller, don't you worry that having bought one, your customers won't buy another?" asked Grandpa Joe.

With a dismissive wave, Willy answered the question. "On the one hand, I don't care." He shifted his cane, and with his other hand now free, he waved that hand in the same dismissive way. "On the other hand, of course not! People lose interest all the time, in all sorts of things, that last for years and years and years! They'll buy another just to have a different color. But these will make people with very little allowance money, who can't readily buy another, very happy." He looked up. "Excuse me."

Grandpa Joe watched Mr. Wonka stride across the floor, stopping by the door, where Eshle had come in. "This is some place, isn't it Charlie?"

Charlie looked up, and nodded. Following his Grandpa's gaze, they both looked on as Mr. Wonka crouched down, conversing with Eshle in a rapid sign language. At the end of the exchange, Mr. Wonka crossed his arms over his chest, in the bow they had already seen. Looking surprised, Eshle hurried to match it, and left.

Eshle had a lot to think about. Willy Wonka had just told him to issue a standing order allowing Charlie Bucket admittance to the Factory. Unprecedented! But Willy had done it in sign language; nothing the Buckets could hear or understand. Eshle smiled. It would be just like Willy to tell the Oompa-Loompas, and not tell the Buckets. He hurried on.

"Good news," beamed Willy, as he rejoined them. "Remember Television Chocolate?" He could see from their faces they did. "Apparently, a quality control exercise went wrong earlier today, though I expect the lesson was the more throughly learned for the error." He turned back to the tank. "Would you like an Everlasting Gobstopper, Charlie? I've perfected these little beauties. I'll be marketing them soon. Be the first on your block to have one, ha, ha." The laugh was mirthless.

Charlie thought Mr. Wonka was changing the subject, but he wasn't.

"You can put it in the wrapper you picked up from the floor of the Television Chocolate Room." Willy's tone was off-hand. "It's not something I would normally suggest, but that room in particular is antiseptically clean." By now, Willy was holding three Everlasting Gobstoppers in his hands, each a different color, the snorkeling Oompa-Loompas having handed them to him. "Pick one."

"You don't mind that I picked up the wrapper?" Charlie asked, tentatively.

"Nah. You'd have heard about it before now if I had. In fact, you did me a favor. I shouldn't have littered in the first place. Go on, pick one."

Mr. Wonka seemed completely at ease, so Charlie, reassured, pointed to the red Gobstopper. Mr. Wonka dropped it into his hand, but as Charlie started to take the wrapper out of his pocket, Mr. Wonka stopped him.

"Do that later, Charlie, that wrapper is still one thing I don't want to see again. You get extra points if you can figure out why, but do it at home, not here." Willy turned on his heel. "Come on," he called, "I have one more thing to show you today," and he led them back to the Great Glass Elevator, and stepped inside.

* * *

Charlie's face fell when the Elevator stopped, but he quickly hid his reaction. He knew the tour had to end sometime, and in truth, it was the end of the day. But the view that greeted him when the doors opened was a sad one. Seen from the side — they were in an alcove — it was the red and gold chair at the head of the corridor where the day had started, with his jacket, and his Grandpa's coat, hanging from either side of it. Charlie couldn't help himself from being disappointed. He wanted the tour to end in some spectacular, grand way, that only someone like Willy Wonka could imagine — not this way. Charlie could imagine this way, and it felt flat.

Walking from the Great Glass to the hall, Willy headed for the chair, on which there was no longer any sign of _his_ coat. Instead, on the seat of the chair, was a silver dome, resting atop an amethyst platter. The dome was topped by a rounded silver handle; the platter had a silver, rope design border, with two silver, intertwined 'W's, on either side, that served as handles.

"This isn't the Inventing Room," said Willy, "but this," he pointed, looking very pleased, "is something I invented this morning, before you got here." Three pieces of metal, curled for springiness, and attached at regular intervals to the bottom of the dome, served to fasten it to the platter. Releasing two of them, Willy removed the dome with a flourish. "I mean, I knew you were coming …so I baked you a cake!" He giggled.

It was the most luscious and delicious looking cake Charlie had ever seen.

"It's for you to take home to your…"

"Family," Charlie breathed; he knew the drill…

"…since," Willy didn't miss a beat, "I couldn't have them on the tour, I thought they might like to have something from it."

Grandpa Joe, listening, appreciated the exchange for the dance it was, deciding he'd ask Charlie about it on the way home. In the meantime, the cake looked good enough to eat. "Thank you, Mr. Wonka," was all he could say.

"Thank you for coming. That's all we have time for today." Willy found himself in uncharted waters. This wasn't his style of ending things; it felt flat, and he felt awkward. Worse, this was the tricky part of this plan, as now it depended on Charlie.

Charlie noticed Mr. Wonka's awkwardness, and took up the slack. That's what he'd seen Terence do, the night before. "It was a great tour, Mr. Wonka. I wouldn't have missed it for anything. I know my family will enjoy the cake. What should we do with your dishes?"

Oh good, forward movement! "You can do anything you like with them, they're yours to keep — and don't forget about the lifetime supply of chocolate and candy, that's yours, too." Willy's hands were twisting against each other on his cane.

Perplexed, Charlie frowned. Though Mr. Wonka's tone was pleased, he was just as anxious. There must be something else. The hall got quiet as Charlie studied Mr. Wonka's face, Mr. Wonka studied Charlie's face, and Grandpa Joe started feeling uncomfortably left out.

Finally Charlie asked, "Would it be okay if we showed Terence the cake? He told us we could stop by on the way home, and we were planning to do that."

"You were?" Too good to be true! "Fantastic! YES! Stop by, and show him the cake." Willy was ecstatic, and then, an instant later, all business. "When you do, give him this." Willy extracted a large cream-colored envelope from an inside pocket in the tail of his coat.

Charlie took the envelope. There was no doubt he'd said the right thing, because there wasn't a shred of anxiety left in Mr. Wonka. Charlie bent down to look at the envelope more closely. There was nothing on it, but there were somethings in it. When he looked up again, Mr. Wonka was half-way back to the Great Glass Elevator, and closing the distance fast. As Mr. Wonka stepped in, he turned, and just before he hit one of the buttons, Charlie thought he heard him say, "You and yours are welcome here anytime!" but he couldn't be sure, because the doors were closing, and the Elevator sped off. Charlie turned away, crestfallen.

Grandpa Joe put a comforting arm around Charlie's shoulders. "It's been quite a day, hasn't it Charlie?"

Charlie looked up and nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.

Grandpa Joe tried to lighten the mood. "I think I'm gonna do what Mr. Wonka did," he said heartily.

Charlie's expression became quizzical.

"I'm gonna quote 'The Wizard of Oz'. Here goes - 'My! People come and go so quickly here!'"

There was the sound of twittering behind them. They turned to face down the corridor toward the Chocolate Room, and there stood the Oompa-Loompa Mr. Wonka had called 'Eshle', with the two Oompa-Loompas who had shown Grandpa Joe around the Chocolate Room. At least, they looked like them.

"I think you just made my case," said Grandpa Joe, with a laugh.

Even Charlie had to smile.

"Don't mind Willy," said Eshle. "He's the worst at good-byes. He usually just takes off without saying anything at all." Eshle smiled brightly. "He's had a pretty full twenty-four hours. I wouldn't be surprised if he slept for the next three days."

"Is that where he went now?" asked Charlie. "To go to sleep?"

"He probably took off for the Inventing Room. I doubt he'd be able to sleep until he undid the adjustments he made to the Great Glass Elevator," was Eshle's reply.

"Adjustments?" Charlie asked.

"He slowed it down to one-third its normal speed."

Charlie took a minute to digest this new tidbit of information. "He slowed it down?"

"Yeah. He wanted you to like it."

Putting a hand to his mouth, Charlie began to laugh. Only giggles at first, it soon escalated to much more than that. Grandpa Joe wondered if Charlie was over-tired. He crouched down, placing both hands on Charlie's shoulders, to steady him. Charlie looked him in the eye, and then over his grandpa's shoulder, at Eshle.

"Tell Mr. Wonka, I thought it was great at first." He giggled some more. "But by the end of the day, I wished it would go faster." Charlie shook his head. Mr. Wonka had slowed it down. His favorite toy. For us! Charlie suddenly couldn't be happier. "Come on Grandpa, let's go. Do you want to take the cake or should I?"

"Oh Charlie," said his Grandpa, "Did you really say that? Because I think you take the cake."

"So do we," said Eshle, and the three Oompa-Loompas burst into verse:

_Now it's o'er, it's safe to say,_  
_You've had a quite successful day!_  
_Not chocolate-brown, or round, or blue,_  
_Devoid of slime, you're a rosy hue -_  
_And being so especially wise,_  
_You've even kept your proper size!_

_It comes to us as no surprise,_  
_We really think you'll win the prize;_  
_And if you do, tis oh, so true,_  
_We one and all will welcome you!_

Grandpa Joe and Charlie both smiled as the verse ended. What prize? They must mean the chocolate, but then the 'if' and the 'welcome' part didn't make sense. Exchanging glances, they silently acknowledged it was a mystery of the factory they couldn't solve now.

Charlie tried to take the cake, but in the end, the trappings proved too big, and Grandpa Joe took over. Eshle bade them farewell at the Factory door, and they made their way across the snowy courtyard. It was just after five o'clock, and the sun was setting. Reaching the Factory gates in the half-light, Charlie pushed on the side gate to his right. Cold and unfeeling, like the inanimate object it was, the gate didn't budge an inch. As elated as he had just been, Charlie felt defeated now. His arm dropped to his side, all vitality leaving it. He couldn't make the gate move, an augury of things to come; more than likely, this factory would always be impenetrable.

"I think Charlie," said Grandpa Joe quietly, "it opens inwards. You have to pull."

Charlie let the words wash over him, feeling hope flicker. He pulled, and the gate opened easily. They walked thorough, and returned to the world.


	18. The Shop

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Thank you readers, and thank you marvelous reviewers: __**dionne dance:** Charlie's lucky he had Terence's lead to follow; __**Squirrela**: That's a standing order I'd like to have! **LiviahEternal**: Merci, here's one note revealed; **Dysphasia**: Thank you, your words are very kind!_

* * *

Charlie remembered to look both ways before he stepped out into the street in front of the Chocolate Factory. It gave him a chance to look at the world, which wasn't the same world he had left this morning. It started with the snow; it wasn't fresh and magical anymore. It was the dirty color that always happened when cars drove on it. They kicked up the grit, and it dirtied everything. It wasn't only the snow. Everything looked brown and gray; browner and grayer than Charlie had ever imagined it could look. It was no match for the vibrancy of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

A heavy sigh escaped Charlie as he crossed the street. "Grandpa Joe," he said, as they reached the other side. "I think I wish I was one of those kids on the other tour."

"You must be joking, Charlie!" Grandpa Joe exclaimed. "Why ever would you want that?"

"Because none of them will ever want to go back to that factory ever again. They won't miss it, and I already do." Charlie kicked at the snow.

"Don't worry about it, Charlie." He couldn't give Charlie's hand a squeeze because he was carrying the cake, but he wanted to. "You never know. I'm carrying a cake Willy Wonka made. Did you ever think that would happen?"

"No." Charlie was quiet as they walked down the hill. "I'm sorry, Grandpa Joe," he said as they reached the steps of Terence's shop. "I should be glad I went, and not sad it's over."

"I think it's okay to feel both, Charlie," was his Grandpa's reply. "Come on now, let's give Terence his envelope."

Charlie ran up the steps.

* * *

Scrambling through the door first, Charlie held it open for his Grandpa Joe.

"Well, well," said Terence, looking up from the book he was reading, snapping it shut, and quickly putting it down on the counter in front of him. "The pilgrims return!" He looked them up and down, adding a droll, "un-harmed and in-tact." Seconds later, he leapt to his feet - Grandpa Joe was carrying something, and it looked cumbersome. Terence quickly scurried around the counter and out into the shop. "Here, let me take that for you," he said, taking the platter with its dome, and placing it on the counter, near the till. Terence stood back to look at it. "Criminy, what in the heck is it?"

"It's a cake Mr. Wonka baked," was Charlie's earnest reply, as he walked purposefully over to the chocolate bar display.

Terence looked at him and then back at the platter and dome. "You're kidding. Ha! It's a good thing the sun went down, or we'd all need sunglasses to look at this thing. That's a lot of silver going on!" Terence prowled around it, studying it from all sides. "Is he trying to get you guys mugged? Doesn't he have something in plastic? Tupperware at least? What's this?" He was looking at the platter, running his fingers over it. "Amethyst?"

Charlie, reaching into his pocket, was becoming alarmed. "He said we could keep it!"

"Oh! Really? Well, that's something. Can I look at the cake?" Terence had his hands already poised to undo the spring clamps.

Charlie nodded. "He said we should show you." Charlie turned back to the counter, where he began carefully spreading out the offending wrapper, pulled from his pocket.

Terence, oblivious to Charlie's project, had the top off in no time. Holding the dome in his hand he stood back. "Now that's a cake!" Replacing the dome, he looked over at Grandpa Joe, who was leaning against one of the shelves. "I don't think you should carry that. I'll help you take it to your house. Charlie said last night you don't live very far from here."

Grandpa Joe was grateful for the offer of help. "That would be very nice of you, and I gladly accept. Mr. Wonka gave us an envelope to give you, as well. Charlie?"

Charlie distractedly handed Terence the envelope, immediately turning back to smoothing out of last of the wrapper's wrinkles.

Taking the envelope, Terence murmured, "this just gets better and better," and he opened it, dumping two smaller envelopes on the counter next to the cake. Picking up both, he put one down. "That one," he pointed to it, "is addressed to your mother, Charlie. This one is addressed to me." Ripping it open, he read, and began to laugh. "It says," and he read aloud, _"My Dear Terence: It would be a great favor to me if you would please be so kind as to escort Charlie and his Grandpa Joe home this evening, carrying the cake they have brought with them. Once there, please also deliver to Mrs. Bucket the note I have enclosed with this one._ (Signed) _Willy Wonka" _Terence stopped reading, his eyes still scanning the page. "Wait. There's a post script - _P.S. Please arrange to arrive at the Bucket house before 18:00."_ He stopped reading again, checking his watch. "We've got a time here, guys, 6 PM. It's almost half five now, I think we better go. There's no penalty for being early, but Willy hates it if you're late."

Rounding the counter again, Terence grabbed his coat off a hook in the back room. He picked up the note addressed to Mrs. Bucket, stuffing it into one of his coat pockets, then picked up the platter and dome that held the cake. "This is heavy." He put it back down, and taking his keys from the pocket of his jeans, he threw them to Charlie. "You lock up," he said, as he scooped up the cake again, and headed for the door. Holding the cake aloft, he sang out, "Lay on, MacDuff!"

"WAIT!" cried Charlie. The keys had landed on the counter next to him. He made no move to pick them up.

Terence swung round to face him and Grandpa Joe came to attention. Charlie so rarely raised his voice, to hear it was nothing less than astonishing.

"I have to finish this!" Charlie said more quietly, but no less determinedly.

"Finish what?" asked Terence.

"Finding out what's wrong with this wrapper." Charlie was holding a mangled 'Nutty Crunch Surprise' wrapper next to the same sort of bar on the display. "I don't see anything."

Charlie had returned to his examination, so Terence turned to Grandpa Joe, who filled him in on Mr. Wonka's strange reaction to the wrapper in the Television Chocolate Room, as Terence once again returned the cake to the counter.

"May I?" he asked Charlie, reaching for the wrapper.

Charlie shrugged.

Terence held it. "This is the wrapper that was shrunk?"

Charlie nodded.

"Notice," said Terence, "that it is exactly the same size as the wrappers on these bars. It started out really big, right?"

Charlie nodded again.

Terence spoke quietly, almost to himself, as he held the wrapper, turning it over. "So he knows exactly how big it needs to be to shrink down to normal size. He may not have the teleporter aspect perfected, but it looks like, as a shrinking device, he's got it up and running." He studied it for another minute. "And you say that something about this got him bent out of shape?"

Charlie wondered how well you'd have to know Mr. Wonka before you felt comfortable describing him as 'bent out of shape', but he felt reassured knowing he knew someone who did, and answered, "He said it was something I could figure out, but I haven't so far."

Grandpa Joe joined them as Terence took the Nutty Crunch Surprise off the display and laid it next to the wrapper.

"Anybody see any difference here?" Terence asked. "I don't." Terence waited until the Buckets shook their heads, and then turned the two items over. When he did, he noticed a difference right away. "Ah," he said, and he waited for Charlie to see it, too.

The 'ah' gave it away. Charlie looked up at Terence, following his gaze to the wrapper. Terence was looking at the bar code.

"The bar code is different!" Charlie's relief at solving the mystery was palpable.

"This could be funny. Let's see which bar code they used." Terence was already removing the other Wonka chocolate bar varieties from the display, turning them over, comparing the bar codes. None was a match. "Okay, this is getting less funny, but it might be something else he makes." Terence rounded the counter and googled the number into his computer, the clicks of the keyboard the only sounds in the shop. He let out a low whistle when he saw the result.

Charlie and Grandpa Joe both leaned across the counter, trying to see.

Terence glanced up. "Somebody sure likes to live dangerously over there," he said, in a hushed tone. "We've moved into not-funny-at-all territory, if you're Willy. That's the bar code for a Hershey chocolate bar." Terence looked back at the screen, nervous laughter capturing him. "It could have been worse — it could have been a bar code from a Prodnose, or Slugworth candy."

"Turn that off." It was Grandpa Joe. The way he made it sound, the screen may as well have been a snake.

Terence turned it off.

"It couldn't have been worse." Grandpa Joe's voice was leaden. Hearing the names Prodnose and Slugworth - thieves that they were - spoken aloud on a day spent with Willy Wonka, had chilled Grandpa Joe to his core. The same pall that had overhung the Television Chocolate Room now overhung the shop. Grandpa Joe spoke deliberately, in the same leaden tone. "Charlie, I doubt Mr. Wonka will ever ask you about that wrapper again. If he does, just say the bar code was different. As for those other two names…" his eyes looked into the distance, but he was seeing the past. "Don't ever mention them unless he does first." With a shudder, Grandpa Joe brought himself back. "Sorry. Those two names — it was a bad time. We should go," he said, and he reached for the comfort of Charlie's hand.

Charlie took the keys and crumpled the wrapper. He'd burn it when he reached his house. His other hand found his grandfather's.

Terence followed with the cake. He hadn't realized what a brave face Willy had put on those events from so long ago, until he had seen the effect they still had on Grandpa Joe. He wouldn't underestimate that darkness again.

Walking in silence, all three instinctively paused at the corner, turning to look up the hill. The Chocolate Factory stood in the gloaming, serene in the fading light, the smoke from its chimneys curling tranquilly upwards into the evening sky. The Factory, so calm in itself, invited them feel the same way. Comforted that its past was no longer its present, they turned their steps down the hill.

As Charlie walked, his heart was full. When he had left the factory, the world had been different; too different. He had needed to find a place that was still the same. To find it, Charlie had closed his eyes, as he always did when he stood on that spot by the gates, and as he breathed in the scents, the place he was looking for had easily been found. The scents hadn't changed at all, and Mr. Wonka still couldn't keep them from leaving. The sameness made the difference wonderful - Mr. Wonka had invited him in. Charlie hugged the thought to his heart like the jewel that it was, all the way to his house.


	19. The Evening

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Thank you reviewers, you really make a difference: __**dionne dance:** Excellent reading between the lines, indeed, it was an ill-considered bet - whether he would notice or not; __**Squirrela:**_ _I've decided he did know, the result of a photographic memory and too much time on his hands_._  
_

* * *

"Evening Buckets," his father sang out, as Charlie opened the door, and the town clock chimed 6 PM. "You're back! In one piece!" Mr. Bucket saw Terence. "Bringing company! Evening to you, Mr…"

"Terence," said Terence, brightly. "Bringing cake!"

"Cake? I love cake," crooned Grandma Georgina.

"Cake? I could have me some of that," joined in Grandpa George, agreeably.

That was the start of a chorus of greetings, hugs, smiles, and all round general welcome. Terence, observing, came to the same conclusion Willy had; the place was freezing, but at the same time, it couldn't have been warmer. The difference was, Terence basked in it.

Standing with the cake, Terence took in the scene - four in a bed, parents, cabbage soup on the boil, a ramshackle house. The comparison with what he saw, and what he was holding in his hands, was extreme. The Factory was up the hill, and a universe away. Mrs. Bucket hugged her son, and gave her father-in-law a peck on the cheek, but Terence could see she felt the same way.

As the welcomes died down, coherent conversation became possible again. After making introductions, Mr. Bucket motioned Terence over to the wooden table. "You can put that here," he said. "Thanks for carrying it." He peered at it with interest. "Is that from..."

Terence put the cake down. "Yeah. You're welcome. It is. I thought I would carry it when I saw it, and Willy thought so, too. He wrote as much in a note. I mention it, because I have a note for you, too, Mrs. Bucket. From Willy." Reaching across the table, he handed her the note.

"You mean Mr. Wonka," she said firmly, taking it.

"No, I mean Willy." Terence hadn't meant to sound so adamant. "Sorry, I know what you're saying, but I can't call him that. There's already enough distance between him and other people as it is." He looked toward the door, feeling he had all too quickly overstayed his welcome. "I'll be on my way now, enjoy the cake. Good-night."

Mrs. Bucket, preoccupied with studying the neat, smallish, block letters that spelled out M-R-S. B-U-C-K-E-T on the envelope, looked up. "Please stay," she said. "I'm sorry, too. I have no business telling you what to call him. I didn't mean to be rude, but I find it all so strange, and... unexpected." She gave a short laugh. "It's overwhelming. Charlie told us last night that you're a friend of his." She gestured with her arm to include the room. "We don't have much to offer, but we'd all be pleased if you'd stay for supper."

Charlie was the first to say hooray, and a chorus of agreement from the others joined him.

Terence smiled. "Charlie has spoken. So of course I must stay. What does Willy have to say in his note?"

Mrs. Bucket carefully slit open the top and extracted the note. Reading it, a smile began to form at the corners of her mouth, and by the time she finished, her smile had blossomed into the real thing. "He can be amusing, can't he?" she said. "It's hard to tell that when he's standing in the shadows in a doorway." She shook her head, lost in thought. Mr. Bucket coughed politely. "Right. Well," she folded up the note and put it back in the envelope. "The gist of it is, he'd like to introduce you as his friend, and he hopes I'll invite you to stay to his dinner."

"_His_ dinner?" Terence focused on the word right away.

"That's what he wrote," affirmed Mrs. Bucket, with a nod of her head.

"Huh. This should be good. But we're a step ahead of him, aren't we?" Terence rubbed his hands together. "Where should we all sit?"

The knock on the door interrupted him. It was 6:15 PM on the dot. Mr. Bucket opened the door to discover a young man and woman from not the most expensive, or most exclusive, or most trendy restaurant in town, but from _L'usine_, a small, out-of-the-way restaurant that served the most delicious food. Introducing themselves, they lost no time in setting up a simple, but scrumptuous dinner, with Terence and Mr. and Mrs. Bucket pitching in.

"This food," the team said, when all was ready, "we prepared, but it comes from The Chocolate Factory, with Mr. Wonka's compliments. You'll have to serve yourselves, we're afraid, because we have strict instructions to leave to you in peace. But not before we deliver this note."

Mr. Bucket accepted the note they handed him. "Are you from the Chocolate Factory?" he asked.

"No," they laughed, "but the food and all the china is. Bon appetite!" With a wave, they took their leave.

"Charlie," said Grandpa Joe, surveying the small feast, "Mr. Wonka has moved the tour to our house."

Charlie nodded, but said nothing. He wished Mr. Wonka had come as well.

* * *

Yesterday had been a good day for eating chocolate, but today was a good day for just plain eating. The grandparents ate in bed, on trays, as they always did; Mrs. Bucket had her meal on a chair by the fire, with Charlie at her side, as she always did; Mr. Bucket and Terence ate at the table, making room among the platters.

As is always the case when hungry people are eating delicious food, there was no conversation, as everyone tucked into the tempting dinner of roast tenderloin of beef, with caramelized onions in a red wine reduction, garlic mashed potatoes, and sautéed vegetable medley. The beef was perfectly aged and prepared, and so tender, the edge of a fork would cut it. The cake, ensconced in its protective dome, sat in a place of honor in the middle of the big bed.

The signal that everyone was replete, was the resumption of conversation. Grandpa George pointed with his fork. "Time for the cake."

Mrs. Bucket took charge. "Dear, if you and Terence will pick up the dishes, we can move the cake to the table and serve it."

Charlie had already seen the cake, and he thought that was a terrible idea. "Can we leave it where it is Mum? I think we should look at it before we cut it, and everyone can see it where it is."

Grandpa Joe agreed with Charlie, and adding his two cents, said as much. Mrs. Bucket decided the cake could stay put. Terence and Mr. Bucket cleared up the remains of the meal, packing all away in a container provided by the restaurant team, setting out dessert dishes and forks on the table at the same time. By the time they finished, Charlie was beside himself with anticipation. Crawling on the bed, he had already undone the curly cue clamps.

"Da, da, da, da, da, da, da..." cooed Grandma Georgina, tonelessly.

"Thanks for the drum roll, dear," said Grandpa George sweetly to his wife, only to testily add, "come on Charlie, don't keep her in suspense, let's see this thing." Dinner hadn't made even the smallest dent in Grandpa George's feistiness.

"You'll like it," said Charlie, and grinning, he removed the dome.

Charlie was right. They did like it. The cake wasn't frosted or iced. Instead, a cloud of white and dark chocolate shavings cloaked it, curled and uncurled, the variations in the colors and the sizes acting as a sliding scale of nuance, picking out the stylized outline of the Bucket house on its top, the design extending down the sides of the cake, like a panorama. The details made it the more personal. Smoke curled from the chimney; the pickets of the fence poked out from the white chocolate snow. There was no hint of cabbages.

Mrs. Bucket looked at her husband. "Do you really think he made it?" she asked.

Mr. Bucket had no way of knowing, and adopted a noncommittal expression as answer.

Charlie came to Mr. Wonka's defense. "Of course he did! Look! He signed it." Charlie pointed to the trademark Wonka 'W' picked out in a white two shades darker than the white of the background on the side of the cake. Easy to miss, Charlie hadn't missed it.

Grandpa George broke the spell. "Hell's bells! That man is a nuisance! How are we supposed to eat that? It's a work of art! It'd be a crime to cut it." He scowled at the cake. "But mark my words, that is exactly what is going to happen! Somebody hand me a cake knife."

Mr. Bucket shushed him. "Quiet! Give us a chance to appreciate it."

* * *

Slicing into it, they discovered the cake wasn't technically a cake. It was a torte. A delectable, eight layer torte - one layer for every person present. Specifically, almond chiffon cake alternated with mocha meringue buttercream frosting, into which crushed meringue, favored with nothing anyone in the Bucket house had ever tasted before, but wanted to taste again, as soon as possible, had been added.

Conversation stopped again, as everyone savored their serving, but this time, it didn't stop for long. Charlie, sitting in the center of the bed, chatted away, answering questions about the tour. Terence listened with only half an ear, he had heard most of it before, from the maestro himself. Grandma Josephine had come to life when Charlie mentioned the 'Taste Accounting' plate on Doris's desk, pointing out to everyone, with a reproving 'tsk-tsk', that there is no accounting for taste, causing Grandpa George to nearly fall out of bed, laughing. Mr. Bucket decided silently to agree with his wife, it did seem that Mr. Wonka could be amusing.

Grandpa George changed the subject slightly. "So what's he like?"

Terence assumed Charlie was at the receiving end of Grandpa George's question and continued to focus on his dessert. As a rule he wasn't fond of cake, or tortes, or whatever, but this was something else. This was phenomenal. Charlie was taking a long time to answer and the room had grown quiet. Terence looked up to find every eye on him. He quickly popped another bite of torte into his mouth to give himself time to think about his answer. What would Willy want him to say? And then it dawned on him. The whole point of this cake/note exercise had been to get the Buckets to his shop, to get him to the Bucket house, where he could be invited to dinner, so he could answer questions. It was inevitable he would be asked. Willy wanted him to tell them. The envelope, the obvious notes, the unwieldy container, they all made sense now, because really, Willy could just as easily had the restaurant team deliver the cake! What a set up! Terence began to giggle. The scheme was elaborate, but effective. He laughed harder.

"You sound like Mr. Wonka," said Charlie.

"I do, don't I? I guess it rubs off," answered Terence.

"So answer the question already," said Grandpa George, impatient.

Terence locked eyes with Grandpa George. "I think Joe here knows him as well or better than I do. He worked for him for years, and I only knew him for two and a half months, when we were kids."

Mrs Bucket leaned forward. "How did you know him?" she asked.

Terence turned to Mrs. Bucket. "We went to the same school. As I told Joe this morning," Terence nodded at Joe, "Willy helped me polish up my reading."

"Why would he do that?" asked Mr. Bucket.

Terence answered as if he was saying the most obvious thing in the world. "Because I asked him to."

Grandpa George smoothed the blanket in front of him. "I might have been a little short back there, but I'd still like to know your view. Joe's relationship was employee/employer. Nora said in the note he wrote her you were a friend. It's not the same thing at all."

Terence silently agreed, but decided to make the rounds before he answered himself. "What do you think he's like, Charlie?"

Charlie had thought about this all day. "I think he's good at what he does, and he likes doing it." There were nods of agreement. "I think he thinks a lot of things he doesn't say out loud." Terence nodded at that one. "I think he cares about the people who work for him."

Grandpa Joe agreed with that. "He did when I worked for him, especially at Cherry Street. That big factory made things more impersonal, but still... He was the most polite, amiable person I ever met, who, at the same time, wouldn't let you anywhere near him. It was the strangest thing. Maybe he didn't trust himself to know who his friends were, so he didn't make any."

Grandpa George snorted. "I guess he was right." He wagged his finger at Terence. "So answer the question, you've stalled long enough."

Terence did, surprising them all. "When I knew him, he was a lot like Charlie."

Gasps filled the room. Mrs Bucket looked astonished. "You're not serious, they're nothing alike."

"Maybe not now, but then. He was polite, and on the quiet side, just like you Charlie, though I will say he could talk a blue streak if you got him going or something interested him."

Charlie nodded. "He still does that."

Terence nodded back. "He spent a lot of time in books. Do you like to read, Charlie?"

Charlie was honest. "Books are okay, but I'd rather draw, or even better, build things."

Mr. Bucket got up from his chair and reached under the wooden table, pulling out a toothpaste cap model of the Factory, setting it on the table top. Pointing to it proudly, he said, "Charlie made this."

Terence took a moment to admire it. The model really was something; very creative and quite a likeness. "Willy likes to build things, too," and he laughed, pointing toward the Factory, "but your mother's right, you're not the same. You seem pretty serious, but he had you beat in that department, hands down, and when he was your age he hadn't had any chocolate or candy ever."

"Balderdash! I don't believe any of that for a minute," Grandpa George erupted indignantly. "You're pulling our legs!"

Terence speared a piece of torte with his fork. "Believe it. His father kept him on a tight leash. Short hair. Drab colors. No candy." No need to mention the braces.

Mrs. Bucket frowned. "His father? Most people in town think he's an orphan."

Terence set his teeth. "Then most people in town are wrong. His father was a dentist, and still is, as far as I know."

Grandpa Joe and Charlie exchanged glances. That explained the perfect teeth. The 'W' explanation Mr. Wonka had given them made sense now, too. Nobody thought of dentistry when they thought of 'Wonka'.

"Where is his father now?" asked Mrs. Bucket, innocently.

Terence dropped his fork on his plate, pushing it away. "Ignorance and apathy! I don't know and I don't care!" Resignedly, he added, "After he left, I don't think Willy does either."

"What do you mean, after he left? Did Willy," Mrs. Bucket caught herself, "I mean, Mr. Wonka, run away from home?"

"No. He didn't." Terence spat the words. "His father ran away from him, and took the house when he went... it's too much of a stretch to call where Willy lived a home. I wasn't here for that, my Mum and I had already moved a few weeks before, and this subject is now closed." Terence caught his breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't find out about this until I came back here, and it's still shocking. I've been back for over two and a half months, and yesterday is the first time I've seen him. Truth be told, I'm amazed he has anything to do with any of us at all."

The Bucket family had nothing to say, until Charlie said, "He must like you."

It was so simple, Terence laughed, the tension broken. "He must like you, too."

Grandpa George had a big enough heart to be slowed by what he'd heard, but he was too hard-bitten to let it stop him for long. He had new respect for Willy Wonka, admiring his resilience, but when the silence threatened to stretch out again, he threw up his hands. "Is the wake over? What does that other note say?"

"Maybe to enjoy the dinner?" offered Grandpa Joe.

Terence shook his head. "I think he's done with asking for the obvious. This note is probably something new."

"Let's find out." Mr. Bucket reached for the note. "It's addressed to both of us dear," he said, catching his wife's eye.

"You read it, dear, I already read one," she sighed.

"It says," and he opened it, _"My Dear Mr. & Mrs. Bucket, I took the liberty of changing the date of the tour yesterday, and today I am taking the liberty of changing the prize. It now includes a lifetime supply of groceries, as well as the chocolate and candy. You are welcome to provide a list of your wants to the Factory each week (I do hope you enjoyed the sample provided this evening) or, if that is not satisfactory, you may set up an account at the shop of your choice, direct billed to me. Congratulations._ (Signed) _Willy Wonka."_

"We're set for life!" It was Grandma Georgina, and it made sense. Everyone in the family stared. They thought she had fallen asleep.

"Yippee! I move we pick the factory!" exclaimed Grandpa Joe.

"I second the motion!" chimed in Grandma Josephine, raising her hand.

"All in favor, say aye!" crowed Grandpa George.

"We can't accept!"

The chorus of 'ayes' died on everyone's lips as they all turned to stare at Mrs. Bucket. She wrung her hands nervously, hardly daring to look at the faces turned her way. "We can't. The chocolate is alright, but this other.. it's too generous. Terence, you're his friend, you'll have to tell him 'no' for us."

Terence picked up the fork he had dropped and spent a minute pushing it around his plate, his head bowed. "Can't do that." He looked up, his eyes hard. "There's two really great ways to twist a knife in a person without using a knife. One is to deceive them. People will forgive everything but that. The other is to refuse a gift." The room had grown silent. Terence wanted to make himself clear. "I'm not talking about inappropriate gifts that come with a web of strings attached. Those aren't gifts; they're something else, masquerading as gifts. I'm talking about refusing a legitimately offered gift."

"But this is too much!" Mrs. Bucket hurriedly interjected. "It's... it's inappropriate."

"No." Terence was firm, his voice as hard as his eyes still were. "He gave a contest. It had a prize. You accepted the prize when you entered the contest. More than that, you willingly let him change the contest to take part. If it's okay for him to change the contest, it's okay for him to change the prize."

Mr. Bucket studied his wife, trying to understand what was really wrong. "Dearest," he said gently, "I don't see the harm in accepting. You know how much it will mean to the family."

Mrs. Bucket's hidden objection surfaced with the tears that filled her eyes. "I don't want... I don't want our family... we're not a charity case." She fought the tears, and they didn't spill.

"But dearest, you're not... we're not." Mr. Bucket had rounded the bed to stand beside her. Taking the dish she held and putting to one side, he pulled her gently to her feet, and wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. He felt the tears spill. "Oh darling," he murmured, "Charlie won a prize. It's turned out to be a very big prize, and it's going to mean that our lives will change, but I think," his voice took on a softly playful tone, "things will be a lot tastier." He held her slightly away so that he could see her eyes. They glistened, but the tears had stopped. Taking her in his arms again, he gently rocked her back and forth. "We could always tell him we just want cabbage." He heard a sniffle, but felt the glimmer of a smile. Releasing her, he put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. What he saw encouraged him. Leaning in close, he whispered, "You always said our luck would change, and you were right. It has, and we have to accept it."

He had his answer when she hugged him tightly back.

There wasn't much to say after that, and the party broke up. Charlie scampered up to bed, and although he didn't think he could sleep a wink, with a full tummy and food a worry he would never have again, he was asleep before his head touched the pillow. After saying his good-byes, Terence made his way slowly up the hill to his flat above the shop, wondering to himself why Willy hadn't asked Charlie to be his apprentice, because clearly, he hadn't. Terence was still mulling it over, as he drifted off to sleep. By this time, Willy Wonka had been asleep for hours.


	20. The Morning

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_If you haven't read the first third of the second book,_ Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator,_ you will find amazing the capabilities of the Elevator, only hinted at in_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, _but if you have, this won't amaze you at all._

_As ever, thank you readers, and especially, thank you reviewers: __**dionne dance: **All of your questions were a kick to read! You're certainly on the right track. __**Dysphasia: **Yes, I think he is, but with him, it's hard to know if that's all there is to it. __  
_

* * *

The sound of the jet engines had no business being there. Terence knew it, as he heard them, but the knowledge didn't stop the onslaught of noise. In the distance at first, the tell-tale whoosh of the rushing air had steadily grown. Terence didn't wait. He darted off the path he was following, ducking for cover under some low-lying, dense foliage. The canopy of the jungle itself should offer shield enough, but there was no point in taking unnecessary chances.

As quickly as the noise reached a crescendo, it stopped. Terence lay motionless as he strained to hear more, but there was nothing more to hear; the silence was absolute. The minutes melted into one another. Slowly, the ubiquitous sounds of the jungle returned; soft noises in the distance - no threat to him. His heart stopped its racing, his breathing gradually returned to normal. Terence stayed still for some minutes more. Caution in these situations was everything. The rich scent of the earth he was lying on filled his nostrils; the leaves above him nodded gently in the slight wind. A leaf touched his cheek. He brushed it away. It touched him again. Annoyed, he swatted at it roughly, only to have it jump away - next time he'd break it off, but deep in his mind, Terence knew none of this made sense. He struggled to understand.

The struggle paid off. Slowly, his brain swam back to consciousness. In the half-light of the aging dawn, the jungle floor became the sheet on his mattress, and the low-lying foliage morphed into the sheet and blanket covering him. His pillow was the only thing touching his face, and the leaf was — gone. He buried his head in the pillowcase, savoring the realization that it had been a dream. He'd left all that behind, months ago, and that's where he wanted it left — behind. Keeping his eyes closed, he thought about returning to sleep. No, there was no point. Turning his head, still only half awake, he checked the time on the clock on the bedside table, only to freeze again. Two pink eyes stared back at him. Two pink eyes, on a giant sugar cube. Like a cobra striking, his arm flashed out, his fingers expertly flicking the unexpected threat into space, sending the menace arcing toward the foot of the bed, far away from him.

"HEY!" came the indignant response. "You'll hurt it!"

The projectile hit the gloved hand at the end of the outstretched arm with a resounding thwack! Fully awake now, Terence peered up in time to see Willy Wonka's arm retract, having just intercepted the unusual object, cutting short its flight.

Willy examined the lump in his hand. "Oh, you did hurt it," he said, tenderly. "Look, its little skull cracked, and its little brain is oozing out." Closing his eyes, he popped the candy into his mouth and crunched down on it, sighing with satisfaction at the flavor. "They are yummy," he said, and opened his eyes. "Good morning. I hate to eat those, they look at you, but I had to put that one out of its misery. I'm afraid you gave it a mortal wound." Brightening his tone, he finished by inquiring, "Did you sleep well?"

Terence groaned. "That last question - it's too late to try to sound normal Willy, …or too early." He propped himself up on his elbow, thinking about what Charlie said last night about the tour. "That was... a Square Candy that looks Round?"

Willy nodded.

"Okay. What are you doing here? It does seem a little early." Terence watched as Willy removed a piece of yarn from the end of the walking stick laid across his lap. Hmm... the mystery of the 'leaf', solved.

"Any later would have been too late." Willy was curled up, his legs tucked under him, in the only chair in the room - an old wing-backed cast off, positioned near the foot of the bed, that Terence had picked up in a thrift store.

"Too late for what?"

"To wake you up." Willy gestured to the room. "I love what you've done with the place," he said, sweetly.

Terence groaned again. He hadn't done anything with the place. It was nothing but bare bones, and the few things he did have traced their heritage back to second-hand stores, including the cot he was lying on. Things weren't his thing. "Don't change the subject. Why are you here?"

Willy leaned forward eagerly in the chair. "All the things Charlie said to me yesterday, I know, and all the things Charlie said to you yesterday, you know. I don't know if you need to know what he said to me, but I do know I need to know what he said to you." Willy leaned back. "Not to mention all the things the other Buckets said."

"You'd know if you'd gone to your own dinner," grumbled Terence, "and I'd still be sleeping peacefully."

Still be sleeping peacefully, is that what Terence had just said? How bizarre! Willy loved being up before dawn and it never occurred to him that everyone else didn't feel the same way. Willy shook his head, and made a face, as it now _did_ occur to him. Well, now it was after dawn, and it couldn't be helped. "I couldn't go to the dinner," he responded, solemnly, but in his most melodious sounding voice. "How could they talk about me, if I was there? How could _you_ talk about me, if I was there?"

The simple logic was inescapable. "Good point. Clever set up, by the way."

Willy acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head, closing his eyes as he nodded slightly, the ghost of a smile appearing and disappearing.

Reaching around, Terence propped up his pillow and sat up, wishing he could re-cap the evening after a cup of coffee. That didn't seem like it was in the cards. "So." Willy must indeed be curious, as early as he had appeared, but a lot had happened and Terence wondered where to start. "Well, ah, first, they…" he began, only to find himself cut short by the impatient wave of Willy's gloved hand.

"No, no, don't tell me now, that can wait." Willy sprang out of the chair and began to pace back and forth at the foot of the bed. "Now, I wanna go look at colors — pretty colors. Lots of pretty colors, but mostly pretty blue colors. See, I'm even wearing blue." Willy paused to indicate his frock coat du jour. It was cobalt blue. That accomplished, he resumed pacing. "I came here to ask if you want to go with me. If you do, we have to go now, because it will take most of the day, even with 'alternate transportation'." Willy stopped pacing, and giggled. "So… ya wanna go?"

Terence considered the question as he surveyed his friend. Willy looked positively somber. The candy filled cane was gone; in its place was a black walking stick with a gold top. His gloves were black; they made no sound when rubbed together, which Willy was absent-mindedly doing now, and looked like some sort of soft leather, maybe moleskin. Everything Willy had on was black, except for the cobalt blue accent band on the top hat sitting on the foot of the bed, and his cobalt blue frock coat. "Are you sure you feel alright, you're looking very dark," Terence finally said, deciding to keep Willy in suspense awhile longer, as partial repayment for the early morning wake-up.

"I'm being inconspicuous," came the satisfied, silky reply.

Terence sighed. "Frock coats, top hats, and walking sticks are not inconspicuous. And you've gotten shorter overnight."

Willy laughed and dived down beneath the arm-chair. He resurfaced holding a pair of black ankle boots with a non-slip, flat sole. "Of course, my dear Terence, _I_ didn't get shorter overnight, but my shoes did — about three inches, actually, and I'm not even wearing them." He grinned. "Stealthy is so much easier in socks. Where we're going we'll need flat, grippy soles, and if you're gonna come, that's what you'll need, too." Willy plopped down in the arm-chair, bringing his knees up, putting his stocking feet squarely on the cushion. Wrapping his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees, he asked again, "So, ya coming or not?"

Terence knew they both knew it was a foregone conclusion he would go, but the socks he now saw were the clincher. They were a riot of small diamond shapes in every color of the rainbow, swirling in an eye dazzling pattern that kept your eye from being able to focus properly. He burst out laughing - Willy was in fine form!

Willy smirked and jumped up again, putting on his boots, and grabbing his hat. "I'm taking that as a 'yes', so get up, get dressed, and I'll meet you when you're done." With a waggle of the fingers of his right hand, Willy left the room, closing the door behind him as he swept out.

* * *

As he hastened to shower and dress, Terence heard Willy's footsteps on the stairs.

Clattering down the stairs himself, Terence fully expected to find Willy prowling around the shop, so it came as an unwelcome surprise to find the shop empty. He had distinctly heard footsteps on the stairs! Unlikely, but perhaps Willy was waiting outside. Terence unlocked the door - not a good sign - and descended the steps to the sidewalk. The street was almost empty at this early morning hour, and none of the people he saw, once there, were Willy. The sidewalk, shoveled clean, meant there was no hope of tracks in the snow.

Terence stood at a loss, but not for long. In a moment, something fell from the sky, hitting his shoulder, exploding with a small 'puft' sound. He looked down to see a spot of snow on his shoulder and a dusting of snow floating to the sidewalk. He looked up. Willy was leaning over the low ledge of the roof, laughing silently — "Bulls-eye!" he whispered. Terence hadn't heard him, but he knew what he'd said. Willy held another snowball in his hand, and let it fall. Three more sat in a row on the ledge itself.

Terence stepped adroitly to one side. "Don't you think you're a little old to throw snowballs?" he called up.

An elderly couple, walking their dog along the sidewalk in the early morning gloom, gave him a strange look. Terence pointed to the roof. "My friend is throwing snowballs from up there," he said, in way of explanation. The couple looked up and saw no one. Terence followed their glance and saw the same. "No really... He's up there." They hurried away. "I'm not talking to myself!" he called after them. They hurried faster, without looking back. Terence sighed. Hanging around Willy was making him look like a crazy person. He laughed to himself, and looked up again.

Willy was back in sight, eyes at ledge level, watching the retreating couple. When they were safely away, he leaned over the ledge, and answered conversationally, "Snowballs. I'm not throwing them, I'm dropping them. In any case, I agree with Ogden Nash: 'You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely.'" He inclined his head. "I thought you were coming with me."

"I heard footsteps on the stairs. I thought you were down here."

Willy shrugged. "You did. It was the other stairs. I'm up here."

"I can see that. I'll come up."

* * *

Willy was not alone on the roof. With him, at the back, not visible from the street, stood the Great Glass Elevator. "Terence, this is the Great Glass Elevator. Great Glass, this is Terence."

Terence gave it the once over. "Charlie said you introduced it to him."

Willy nodded agreeably. "So I did. I think you should be on good terms with things that can kill you, if they behave badly."

"That's true of any machine," answered Terence thoughtfully, studying the elevator more carefully. It had four jet looking things, one at each corner, but they didn't look like engines. The dream he'd had this morning was making more sense.

"All the more reason to treat them with respect." Willy's gloved hand stroked the Elevator fondly. "If you listen to them, and take care of them properly, they'll take care of you. This beauty, is going to take us to France. Come on," and he stepped inside.

Terence hung back. "France! You must be joking! That's hours away."

"I never joke," answered Willy, casually, "and it _is_ hours away, but not at mach five, using a missile trajectory — but we mustn't dilly, or dally, because we've lots to do once we get there, and I want to be back before late afternoon."

Willy had turned his back to him, and was working on what looked like programming a course, using various buttons on the wall of the Elevator, and a handheld computer he had pulled from the pocket of the great-coat he was now wearing. Terence remained hesitant. The foregone conclusion that he would go seemed less foregone to him in light of the transportation. "Charlie said buttons covered every wall. This only has buttons on one wall."

Willy was patient. "That's because this isn't the Elevator Charlie saw. I have more than one. They do different things, and they have different equipment to suit their use, but _all_ of them can handle travel in the Factory. Are you going to get in?"

Terence felt silly saying the words, because nothing about his life up to now had included playing it safe, and he knew there were no guarantees, but he said them anyway. "Is it safe?"

Willy stopped programming and turned to face him. Willy had on a pair of large, but fairly normal looking, sunglasses which he now took off. His dark violet eyes were devoid of everything except the utmost seriousness, and they locked on Terence. Terence found it almost unnerving, because Willy so rarely made eye contact, and never for long, but he returned the look unwaveringly.

"Is anything safe?" Willy asked softly. "I've gone to the trouble today, of arranging for a block altitude for the time we'll be in conventional airspace, which, with the trajectory I'm using, will be very brief indeed, and I have TCAS to warn me of anyone who strays into that airspace who might conflict with us. I even have some creature comforts like oxygen, and pressurization, but this Elevator is definitely not as posh as a jet. But it is _a lot _faster, and I'm _very _good at this." Willy paused, and sighed. Breaking the eye contact, he turned his head to the side, looking out at the horizon. "I realize its not conventional, but neither am I, and I'm never going to be." He looked at his feet. "I'm never even going to _try _to be." Looking up again, he sounded almost defiant. "So I'm going, but I can't help you. You'll have to decide for yourself whether this ride is for you, or not."

Deliberately, Willy put his sunglasses back on, turned his back on Terence, and resumed programming, but he was barely breathing. In a minute he would know if Terence trusted him, or not.

It took Terence less than a minute to decide. The quiet of the last two-and-a-half plus months had dulled his sense of adventure, and it had been a nice break, but that wasn't him. It hit him then, that on some level, he must have known he'd never be able to leave adventure behind. That was why he had come here. Willy had always been able to make everything he did seem like an adventure, and he had only gotten better at it. Terence stepped into the Elevator. "Where do I sit?" he asked.

Willy said nothing, but showed him the jumpseat, with its seatbelt and shoulder harness. Checking his pocket watch, Willy took his own seat, within easy reach of the various button controls. "Okey-dokey," he said, satisfied with the preparations, the lilt back in his voice. "Ready? We can leave in a minute."

"As I'll ever be," answered Terence.

As he pressed the button that started the take-off sequence, Willy asked, nonchalantly, "Did they like the Torte?"

Terence's answer was drowned out by the roar of the rockets, coming to life.


	21. The Great Gothic Cathedral

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Again, thank you readers, and especially, thank you reviewers: __**dionne dance: **Dare... what an interesting thought... perhaps because lack of involvement now is preferable to loss later. **LiviahEternal: **Like Holmes and Watson, no ladies here, but alas, perhaps because you were not at the Cathedral that day?__  
_

* * *

As promised, the trip was not posh. But it was quick, and, for Terence, unforgettable. At the height of the trajectory, the Earth had looked exactly like the ball hanging in space that it is. It was a view Terence had never expected he'd see, and it delighted him no end to know he'd see it again, on the return trip.

Willy had re-assumed manual control of the craft once they were under the overcast that blanketed the region, guiding the Great Glass Elevator skillfully to settle gently on the moss-covered top of a flat-roofed conference room, part of a hotel complex next door to the grounds of an ancient cathedral.

"Ça édifice," announced Willy grandly, as he stepped from the Elevator, "c'est les Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Chartres. And this," he pointed to the ground at his feet, "is why we need grippy shoes."

Terence followed Willy's arm as he traced their route off the roof. It involved navigating the tops of two walls, one covered in ivy. The walls abutted the retaining wall of a steep hillside, so a misstep would result in a fall of almost twenty feet, and in one place, more than that. Happily, the top of the first wall was flat, and reasonably wide, but sadly, it required a short climb to reach the top of the second wall. Stones protruding from the wall itself made this possible, but dicey. Terence frowned. "Is there some reason we can't park this thing somewhere else?"

With a turn of his wrist, fingers languidly extended, Willy dismissed the question. "Nah, this place is fine. The Elevator looks like a gazebo, it's hard to get to, no one will bother it, and the hotel doesn't mind if I do this." Willy giggled. "They like chocolate, and — money." A dreamy look came to his face. "I wonder if they'd like chocolate covered money," he mused, "...or money covered chocolate?" He smirked at Terence, mischievously answering his own question. "That's silly! Come on, I've done this before." Like a shot, Willy was off on the walls, and had already jumped down into the park on the cathedral grounds, as Terence picked his way carefully, but nimbly, after him.

Willy was leaning over the wall he had jumped down from, pointing to something below, as Terence joined him. "Look, they have a little maze park. You can walk in the little maze down there." Willy popped back up again and spun on his heel, heading for the building itself. Terence gave the park below a quick look, and jogged over to catch up to Willy.

"There's a labyrinth in the nave of the Cathedral. It's about forty-two feet across, but it's usually covered in chairs."

Terence shook his head. This must interest Willy, because he was chattering away. "Never mind the Elevator, aren't you afraid you'll be bothered here?"

Willy rewarded him with a brilliant smile. "Nah, uh! That's why you're here! If anyone bothers us, I'll insist I'm Willy Wonka, and you insist I'm a nut-case you're taking on an outing!"

"So we're going with the truth," laughed Terence.

Willy replied with a mock scowl, followed by a laugh of his own. "It's such a good idea! It'll work perfectly." He twirled his walking stick. "And I'm not wearing my 'W' brooch. You can point out to anyone who cares that the _real_ Willy Wonka never goes anywhere without that!"

"Which means you have it."

"Of course I have it," Willy replied, a tad petulantly, "but not on," as if this simple fact solved all problems.

Terence could accept that. "So, now that I know why I'm here, why are you here?" he asked.

They had reached the end of a cobbled path, with square pavers set on end in a diamond pattern, running beside a wrought iron fence to their right, enclosing a lawn belonging to the Cathedral, with the hill falling away to their left. A broad, open paved area stood before them, with the South Porch of the Cathedral just ahead. Along the opposite street were cafés, a souvenir store, an art gallery, and people. Despite what Willy had said about the merits of his plan for anonymity, Terence could see Willy had his reservations now. Slowing up, Willy walked more deliberately, studying the people, while appearing not to.

"Charlie is two reasons, and you are two reasons," came the measured reply, "but I already told you — I came here to look at pretty colors." Using the tip of his walking stick, Willy pointed at the black outlines of the windows of the cathedral, covered in wire mesh screens, as they walked into the open area, heading west. "These are the prettiest colors on glass you will ever see, but you can't be outside, you have to be inside."

Reaching the steps of the South Porch, Terence expected Willy to climb them, but Willy continued along the apron of pavement.

"Have you ever tried to study the colors of a stained glass window without light?" Willy asked, raising a brow. "It's like looking at a shadow in the dark." Willy was speaking amiably, his walking stick tapping gently on the pavement. "If you weren't here to run interference, I wouldn't be here now, during the middle of the day. It'd be dawn or dusk, or not at all, and that's not conducive for this sort of thing, so thank you."

"Happy to oblige," answered Terence, matching his tone. "Aren't we going in?"

"Yes, but no. Keep going," said Willy, still eyeing the pedestrians.

But Willy needn't have worried about the pedestrians. The few people in sight on this overcast, misty, February day, had problems of their own, and most hadn't bothered giving the pair a second glance. But some had. The glaring disparity between the elegant dress of the shorter man, with his long black coat, black gloves, walking stick, and vintage top hat, wearing sunglasses he didn't need, and the taller man, with his jeans, cross-trainers, and vintage woodland camouflage jacket, was like a beacon. Others, finishing their lunch behind café windows, tried to decide if the shorter man's haircut was medieval-retro, or avant-garde modern, losing interest before they had reached a decision. For one or two, descriptions of Willy Wonka, recently read in newspapers came to mind - a tour or something - but this man was too short, and as far as Willy Wonka stories went, he never left his factory, and the second man was unexplainable. They returned to their conversations, and Willy and Terence arrived at the West facade, virtually ignored.

Willy crossed the street to the small park on the other side, Terence with him, and turned to admire the Royal Portal. Terence took in the three gates in the wrought iron fence, the short cobbled courtyard behind it, the three doors leading into the building, the spires of different heights rising skyward. "This place remind you of anything, Willy?" he asked.

Willy had been about to launch into a lecture, but Terence's question stopped him. He tilted his head. "No. What?"

Terence gestured. "Gates, doors, three, huge building, dwarfs everything else, top of the hill, surrounded by a town… you know... remind you of... anything?"

It took Willy a second but when it hit him, it hit him hard, and he dissolved into a fit of laughter that doubled him over before it finished. "You've got to be kidding!" he managed to choke out, as the fit began to subside. "This whole place is heavenly - the best I can hope for is heavenly tasting chocolate!"

People passing looked concerned, wondering if the convulsed man needed medical attention, but Terence, his right hand on Willy's forearm, his left patting Willy's back, was nodding at them reassuringly, his look telling them he had it all under control.

Recovering, Willy stepped away from the pats and pulled himself together. "That's funny. It never occurred to me. Similarities, but no comparison. I'll just say it's a classic design." He paused to finish catching his breath, sobering up in the process. "There's been a church here since the fifth century; not this one, but a church. This one's been here more than eight hundred years. Come on."

Willy crossed the street, with Terence in trail. "It's a cathedral, but my interest here is purely secular. During the Middle Ages, this place was also a school that kept alive the teachings of the ancient Greeks and Romans. That's why I wanted you to see the carvings on this facade." He pointed with his walking stick at some figures on the arch of the right most door. "See? That's Aristotle, and that's Pythagoras, and that's Euclid." He pointed to cravings on the arch farther up. "Those are the Seven Liberal Arts." He walked over to the left hand door. "And see here, the signs of the Zodiac, and the Labors of the Months."

Terence was impressed. "You have been here before."

"Guilty, guilty, guilty," sighed Willy, happily. "As I said. In my mis-spent youth, after…" Prattling away, he'd just given himself a nasty surprise. Behind the sunglasses, he closed his eyes.

Terence didn't have to ask and said nothing. Willy took only a minute to bounce back; nothing was going to get him down today. "Well, …after. Good times, those, had I only known it." He grinned impishly. "Back then, I could tell people I was Willy Wonka and they'd say 'Willy who'?" He spread his arms expansively, the walking stick an extension. "I could go anywhere, anytime."

"Ix-nay on the onka-way," Terence hissed, glancing around. He was as secular as they came, but the place was beginning to interest him. He didn't want it spoiled before they had even gotten inside.

Willy chuckled. "Ay-Kay. Let's go in."

* * *

Greatness needs no introduction, and Willy, taking off and putting away his sunglasses, was silent as they entered the narthex, and then the nave. The great length of the Cathedral stretched before them, with the vaulted ceiling soaring more than 120 feet above them. The lines of the Cathedral were beautiful in their proportions and simplicity, the austerity of the design and decoration serving to highlight the beauty of the scores of stained glass windows surrounding them.

The two stood quietly, but the place had its own murmur, busy as it was, with visitors. Terence glanced at Willy, but Willy shook his head. "No worries," he said, softly. "Here, privacy rules."

They stood for a few minutes more, before Terence advanced to the beginning of the labyrinth, Willy following him. There was something primitive, and visceral about the labyrinth. Terence felt drawn to walk its path, but, as Willy had said, chairs covered most of it. Terence stayed rooted where he stood.

Willy turned to his left, and headed for the north aisle, tapping Terence on the elbow as he passed him. Terence followed. Willy walked slowly along the aisle, deeper into the building. "Quite a place, don't cha think?" he murmured. "At Charlie's suggestion, I am going to spend part of the afternoon studying these windows."

Terence was incredulous. "You're here because Charlie suggested you come here?"

"No, but yes. On the tour, Charlie suggested I consider eatable windows, since I already have eatable pillows and lickable wallpaper." Willy flicked his walking stick to the side, removing an imaginary obstacle from his path. "I don't think anyone really wants an eatable window… at least, not an exterior one, but an eatable, light-filtering, colorful something to hang _in front_ of a window might be just the thing." A quick sideways glance checked Terence's reaction. Satisfied to find him nodding slightly, Willy went on with his musings. "Licorice instead of leading, you could poke out bits at a time, seasonal icons, maybe make a design of your own… there are _lots_ of possibilities."

Terence surveyed the windows. There was no denying they were grand. The light filtering through them, even on this overcast day, was the true beauty of this place.

Willy strolled along, enjoying each window they passed. "They are such pretty colors!" Willy suddenly looked wistful. "The recipe for the 12th century cobalt blue in some of these panes is unique to this cathedral, and has been lost, despite efforts to recreate it."

"They sure do have a lot of designs, and ways of putting the glass together to make the picture," observed Terence.

"Yeah," Willy agreed. "That's one of the things I want to study. The leading placement can enhance the flow of the picture, or destroy it."

Terence felt a change in the atmosphere he didn't like, and abruptly stopped. They were walking around the back of the choir, and had reached the south-eastern section of the Ambulatory. Entering the building, Terence had felt soothed, and that feeling had strengthened as he walked farther in. Still farther in, a feeling of vitality joined in, and all of it felt wonderful. But the feeling had suddenly disappeared. Terence looked over at Willy, finding him standing, observing him keenly, but waiting patiently. Feeling foolish, Terence said nothing.

When Willy was sure Terence intended to say nothing, he smiled, and said it for him. "So what did you notice?" he asked. "That it was there, or that it was gone?"

Relieved, Terence let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. Willy knew about it. "Both, but mostly that it was gone. I feel like I just walked out of something — an amazing sense of well-being, actually — and into nothing. I'm standing in a building now, like any other building, and that's all it is. What happened?"

"No clue, but it happens like that here, every time. I didn't want to mention it, in case you didn't feel it. If you keep going, it gets more and more ordinary, until you get back to the nave, and then, there it is again!" Willy grinned, turned, and began to backtrack, pulling a notebook out of a pocket. "Glad to know it's not just me. See ya later!"

Terence watched him go, wondering if he should follow him.

* * *

Terence decided not to. Willy had said he wanted to study the windows for the afternoon, and that's where Terence would find him when he wanted him — at the foot of some window or other. As for needing Terence to run interference, Willy had just made it plain he was unconcerned about that inside the Cathedral.

Terence continued down the Ambulatory to the doors of the South Porch and left the building. He spent a few minutes admiring the statues and carvings he found there, and then turned to view the street below him. This was the street they had walked along when they came in, and he decided to do some exploring.

Heading the wrong way down the very narrow Rue des Acacias, he checked on the Elevator, which, from the street level below, did look a little like a gazebo. It was standing peacefully, and Terence continued on. He found an appealing looking Crêperie at the corner of Rue au Lait and Rue des Changes, and wondered if Willy was getting hungry, because he was.

After returning and making a lap of the Cathedral, Terence found Willy at the foot of the Charlemagne window, sketching away. Willy, engrossed in the activity, didn't stop, but did incline his head in Terence's direction, acknowledging his presence. "Why are you sketching?" asked Terence, impressed with the work, but wondering why it was necessary. "There's a gift shop with books with pictures of all the major windows in here." There was no reaction from Willy. "In other news, I'm hungry, and you should be, too." Still no reaction. "Are you?"

Willy continued studying the window, but with the second question, his gloved left hand began a dance. The movements were rapid, and rhythmic, and probably had meaning, because to Terence, they looked like sign language. But if it was, it wasn't anything he was going to understand, and he couldn't resist a chuckle.

At the sound, Willy's hand froze. He curled his fingers tight to his palm, and brought the hand sheepishly to rest against his chest, finally looking at Terence, belatedly joining in the giggle. "Sorry, you probably didn't get that, but" he looked around, "the people I usually work with do. I'm sketching so my muscles will have a memory of the form. You can't get that unless you move them; a picture won't help. Second question. I had breakfast, but I know _you_ didn't. Go get something. I'll be here."

"I will," said Terence, "and," he pointed to Willy's still curled hand, "I'm flattered."

* * *

Back at the Crêperie, Terence ordered and devoured a tasty ham and cheese crêpe, taking the edge off his appetite nicely. Finishing, he continued his walk around the Cathedral environs, putting to rest another hour or so, taking in the town. Willy had said there were two reasons for his, Terence's, being here, but he'd only heard one, and it didn't seem that important. So far, interference wasn't an issue. His thoughts turned to the Elevator, but if that was the second reason, and it probably was, he decided it was pointless to worry about it.

Willy had also said Charlie was two reasons, and Terence had only heard one of those, too; the eatable window idea. Charlie was ahead if he was already coming up with ideas, but if he was ahead, why hadn't Willy offered him the apprenticeship? Time to go back and find out.

* * *

Terence used the North Porch as his entrance, and didn't like at all what he saw when he re-entered the Cathedral. Willy was too easy to find, in the North Aisle, surrounded by a knot of people. Terence approached slowly, guardedly optimistic when he noted that the group was orderly, and Willy was doing the talking, in a calm, melodious voice. When he was near enough to make out the words, Terence slowed even more. Willy was re-creating the life of a farrier in the Middle Ages, expanding on three scenes on the lower section of the window he was standing in front of, his listeners enthralled by the story.

Terence halted a few feet from the group. The moment Willy finished, one of the people asked a question about the Zodiac window, and Willy used the opportunity to shoot a sly, happy smile at Terence, motioning with his eyes toward the Nave, as he listened to the question. Terence nodded his head, heading for the Nave, as Willy explained Astrology was a bona fide division of Astronomy during the 11th and 12th centuries, when Chartres was also a school, shepherding his little group toward the window in question.

Amused, Terence took a seat to wait. Leave it to Willy to get himself at the head of another tour! The feeling of well-being was back in full force as he sat near a pier with a candle marked 'Jacobus' on it, and Terence closed his eyes for a moment, to enjoy it better. A few minutes later, Willy interrupted the peace.

"Sorry that took so long, but it's your fault."

Terence opened his eyes to see Willy seated in the row behind him. "What do you mean? It's only been a few minutes."

"If you call forty-five minutes, 'a few'. That's another reason I wanted to come here today — you lose track of time here." Willy jumped to his feet. "Come on, I think we've lost track of enough."

Terence checked his watch and discovered Willy was right, it had been forty-five minutes, but he was in no hurry to go. He felt great. "How is it my fault? You're the one giving the tour."

Willy sat down again. "Because you were asking me questions. One of those people saw that, and concluded I was a free-lance guide. They were polite. They waited till I finished with my windows, and then they asked."

The group was leaving the Cathedral now, and as they passed abeam where Willy sat, the leader waved and called out, "Thank you, Professor James! Most instructive!"

Willy reacted by returning the wave, with one of his ghastly public smiles, simultaneously ducking a blow Terence didn't deliver, but Willy half-expected.

"James?" Terence hissed, his eyes narrowed. That was _his_ surname.

Willy was vastly amused with himself. "I needed something on short notice. Yours came to mind."

Terence folded his arms. "And I'm a Professor! I've come a long way."

Willy was up again. "You have. Let's go, before I get myself roped into another tour." He started moving toward the center aisle.

Terence caught up to him at the entrance to the labyrinth. "You obviously love to teach. Why haven't you asked Charlie to be your apprentice?"

Willy whirled about suddenly and pointed to the labyrinth on the floor, uncertainty about Charlie making him tense. "That's why," he said, his voice tight. "You just have to look at that. Do you see? Here's the entrance to the path." He pointed to the white stones that made the path, and walked along them, until he came to the black stones that defined the first turn. He stopped and pointed to them. "Do you see these? They matter." Ignoring them now, and crossing them, Willy moved to the center of the labyrinth. "This is the goal. You need to think about how I reached it, and now we need to go."

Willy made for the door, and didn't look back, so he didn't see Terence's contemplative look, following him.

* * *

Terence found Willy waiting in the little park across the street, putting his pocket watch away.

"It's not as late as I thought," Willy said, with just a hint of apology in his voice. Terence had brought up teaching. It was fun, and Willy did like it - who didn't like showing off, and listening to themselves talk? He had almost turned the little group down when they asked if he could answer some questions, but then he'd decided conducting the little group would be two birds with one stone; an opportunity to tell what he knew, and a good joke on Terence - wouldn't he be surprised when he came back! But the good joke on Terence was really a good joke on him. He had underestimated how exhausting people were, even polite, interested people, and the joys of listening to yourself talk only went so far. Now, he didn't want to stay, and he couldn't leave.

Terence took stock of the situation. Willy was putting a brave face on it, but he looked frazzled. "What's the plan, boss?" Terence asked quietly. "Head back home?"

"We can't," Willy sighed, with the ghost of a shiver. "I alerted the governments with regard to this little jaunt. Remember? The block airspace? We can't be early for that." With the problem stated, Willy relaxed, and smiled gamely at Terence, putting his sunglasses back on. "I'm willing to risk some hot chocolate. Any likely spots?"

Terence pointed to the North, glad his reconnoitering was proving useful. "There's a hotel at the end of the block. They'll have some."

The hotel was hospitable, and although Willy spoke fluent French, he let Terence do the talking, because someone else doing it was a luxury, and because he needed to be quiet, and recharge. It always surprised him how draining it was away from the Factory. It interested him to find out there was nothing wrong with Terence's French, and it made him even happier to discover they served _his_ hot chocolate, without discovering _him._ The very definition, in his mind, of a fine hotel. When it arrived, the drink hit the spot.

"Did they like the Torte?" Willy asked, his energy returning.

"They did," answered Terence. "You'd like Grandpa George. He was annoyed at you for making it a 'work of art' - too pretty to cut."

Willy smiled. "But he cut it."

"He did."

"Good man." Willy took another sip of the chocolate. "What about the prize?"

"Wild enthusiasm from everyone except…"

"…Mrs. Bucket." Willy closed his eyes.

"Yeah. How'd ya know?"

Willy sat up and leaned toward Terence. "The situation. The government has about a bajillion programs, and they're not on any of them. That's someone trying to hold their head up high, and, in that group, I think that would be her. Not to mention what I did was weird. Who won?"

"Mr. Bucket, speaking for the rest of the family."

"Factory or shop?"

"Factory, when I left." Terence looked quizzical. "Why is that important?"

When Terence said 'Factory', Willy had sighed with palpable relief.

"Pretty suspicious to change the prize, don'tcha think? Food for life?" Willy stopped abruptly, caught by a thought. "Ha! ...food for life!" Willy giggled, as he savored the double meaning. "Anyway, who would do that? Why? It's too nice to be nice. So I had to give them the opportunity to accept the gift, without necessarily accepting me." Willy looked dubious, and his voice grew quiet, and soft. "I have a checkered reputation in that town - it could have gone either way. If they went with 'shop', it would mean they wanted nothing further to do with me; not good - but it'd save a lot of time to know that up front."

Terence frowned as he considered this. "I think you rather stacked the deck," he concluded, sipping his own chocolate. "Everything was fabulous, and that beef couldn't have been more tender."

"I had to be careful," Willy answered, seriously. "I had no idea what the teeth situation was with all those old people."

Not very delicately put, but Terence had to laugh. "Now that you mention it, everything was easy to chew. But if you thought it would make you look suspicious, why'd you change the prize?"

"I had to, and they had to accept it, or I couldn't offer the other choice," was Willy's matter-of-fact reply.

"You mean the apprenticeship?" asked Terence.

"Yeah. That." Willy nodded, getting to the bottom of the hot chocolate.

Terence knitted his brows. "What has the one to do with the other?"

Willy sighed to see Terence wasn't following. "That choice," he held up a finger, "is so choice, it can't be a choice, unless it is a choice, or it's no choice, at all." Willy looked glum. "I can't have that."

Terence parsed the knot of language. "Any chance we can do this in English?"

Willy pushed away his empty mug, amused, and then not. "If I had offered the apprenticeship at the end of the tour, Charlie would have jumped at the chance to help his ...familia, and taken it, whether it was something he really wanted, or not." Willy pursed his lips. "I can't have that. So I changed the prize. Now he can turn down the offer, without hurting his people." His expression brightened. "And I gave him all day to get used to the change, without interfering, because I'm here, and he's there, and because," Willy sounded positively wistful, "that boy is perfect for the job."

"Ah, the second reason for Charlie," said Terence politely, understanding, but not really buying it. Willy could have paced around that huge factory all day long, accomplishing the same thing, and with a lot less wear and tear on him.

Willy straightened up and laid his forearms on the table, placing his hands one atop the other, expectantly. Now was the time Terence should ask him what the second reason was for Terence's presence here.

But Terence didn't oblige him. Instead, Terence asked if it was time to go, and when Willy indicated it was, Terence, catching the eye of the waiter, made a writing motion across his flat palm, the universal sign for the check. When it came, Willy dug too many Euros out of his pocket, set them on the table, and they left.


	22. The Great Glass Elevator

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Excuses, excuses... the here-ing and there-ing has been particularly grueling of late. A tip of the hat to **Real Genius**, an irreverent romp featuring Val Kilmer and the humble song 'Everybody wants to Rule the World' by Tears for Fears, for providing the satellite's description - this is another movie, disclaimer, to which I **do not** hold the copyright.**  
**_

_Thank you reviewers, __**dionne dance** and **LiviahEternal**: "It means so much you take the time; I'm always thrilled you're so inclined; The words you write I find divine; an inspiration every time." Thank you.  
_

* * *

"We're still too early, but now it's not a problem, because we're in the wrong place, too," said Willy evenly, as he balanced along the top of the last wall, and back to the Great Glass Elevator.

Terence almost missed what he was saying, because he was still negotiating the climb down from the first wall, which, as is always the case, was proving a lot trickier than the climb up. The approaching dusk didn't help. He made it to the second wall in time to see Willy pat the Elevator affectionately, and step inside. "Wrong place?" Terence managed, as he made it to the roof.

"Wrong place," affirmed Willy, happily. "But a leisurely jaunt in Gigi," he patted the Elevator again, "will put wrong to right." He smirked at Terence. "Get it? Gigi? France?" He dissolved in giggles.

Terence sighed. "I get it," he said. It didn't escape him that Willy was a lot happier — and a lot sillier — back in familiar, and private, surroundings. He must be a real trip in his Factory.

Willy smiled, content to stop ribbing Terence, who was certainly being a good sport. He was probably tired, too. "The neat thing is, Paris is just over the hill…" Willy started setting up the Elevator, "…and the river, and some more hills, and another river, and some farms, well, you get the drift, but no visit to France would be complete without a visit to Paris, don't cha agree?" But he didn't wait for Terence's agreement as he turned to the Elevator's control buttons, and gently lifted the Elevator off the roof. Willy climbed to 1000' AGL and came to a heading of 50 degrees. The Elevator proceeded at a stately pace that made sight-seeing easy.

There was still light to see by, as the afternoon faded, and through the glass, the view was a gorgeous, full 360 degrees. At this speed, it seemed that you were floating along on nothing at all, the noise of the rockets, relatively quiet at this speed, the only thing to mar the illusion. Willy was standing, taking it all in, and Terence decided to stand, as well. Willy smiled.

"I thought it had to go fast," Terence said.

Willy looked at him for a long moment, but couldn't resist. "Dragonflies," he said dreamily, in a perfect imitation of Grandma Georgina's voice.

Terence studied him. "How'd you know she likes to say that?" he asked.

Willy looked surprised. "I didn't. Does she?" He shrugged. "She said a few choice non sequiturs while I was there, in the most wonderful croaky voice. But I said 'dragonflies' because this Elevator flies the way dragonflies do — anyway at all. Dragonflies have four wings that act independently of each other." He gestured to the four jets. "So do these. This elevator can do anything a dragonfly can do, and that's everything — including hover. So, fast? Not necessarily." He checked his course. "Paris is sixty miles away. We'll be there in an hour."

The flight passed in relative silence. Flying occupied Willy pleasantly, and Terence was content to take in the scenery. Occasionally, Willy would point out a town, or some other landmark of interest. Rambouillet was one of the towns to get a mention, and Terence learned that the breed of sheep carrying that name had started there, on Louis XVI's estate, from Spanish Merino stock, sent by his cousin, the King of Spain. Known for their fine, dense wool, Rambouillet sheep were almost as large as the mutton breeds. Very versatile. It was more information about Rambouillet sheep than Terence had ever hoped, or wanted, to know.

A little later on, as dusk was turning to dark, Terence pointed at a very large estate. "Is that Versailles?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Willy, disdainfully. "That would be one of Louis's other houses. The tourists like it." With that, Willy turned away. Greed masquerading as beauty was still greed, and it left him cold.

The lights of Paris, just ahead, warmed him up. Checking his pocket watch, Willy tapped his walking stick on the floor of the Elevator. Terence turned to investigate the sound, and Willy pointed toward the horizon. In the closing distance, twenty thousand sparkling lights began to twinkle randomly on a tower that reached for the sky. Dropping 200 feet, Willy brought the Elevator in closer, and then brought it to a hover, until ten minutes later, the display was complete.

"I think we had the best seat in the house," said Terence, when it ended.

"I think so, too," answered Willy, as he climbed the Elevator another 700 feet, avoiding the four searchlights at the top of the tower, and improving the view of the rest of Paris. "Spectacular, yes?" He held out his hand, palm upward. "La Tour Eiffel, gateway to the 1889 World's Fair, the Champs de Mars, monument to the centennial of the French Revolution, and patronized by Guy de Maupassant, every day, for lunch, once the restaurant opened."

"Every day? Was the restaurant that good?"

Willy looked bemused. "I have no idea. He said he did it because it was the only place in Paris where you couldn't see the thing. Some people thought it was awful. But I think Édouard Lockroy had it right. He said, 'Do not the laws of natural forces always conform to the secret laws of harmony?' I think they do, and it's a lovely feat of engineering."

"Who was he?"

"A French politician, defending the design. He was the head of Commerce and Industry at the time."

Terence agreed the Tower was graceful, but hadn't realized there had been controversy over it. For all his world travels, Terence had never been to Paris, but to him, and most of the rest of the world, the Eiffel Tower _was _Paris, and he said as much to Willy.

"Non, non, non, non!" Willy disagreed, vehemently. "It's an icon, and a beautiful one, but Paris has _so_ much more to offer than that." Willy reached for the Elevator's controls, and for the next thirty minutes, they toured The City of Lights, and all it had to offer from the air, until Willy fired the rockets to full, and they headed home.

* * *

They had left the City of Lights in the dark, but as they traveled back to the Factory, Terence watched the sun 'rise', and the world fill with light again. In an hour they were back, Willy positively beaming when his beautiful Factory came into view, picked out by the sparkling afternoon sunlight.

Terence wasn't surprised when Willy bypassed the Factory, but it did surprise him to watch the roof of his flat pass by — he had expected Willy to land there. Instead, Willy took up a hover 3000 feet above the bridge at the edge of town, surveying the town and the sky, taking his time doing it, almost as if he had never seen them before. In the ensuing silence, Willy's face slowly lost all expression. "Don't cha love sunny days?" he finally said, his voice as flat as his face was blank. "And time zones. Ya gotta love time zones." His shoulders were slumping. "Aren't_ they_ great? Evening in Paris, afternoon here." Willy frowned. "Well, okay, late afternoon, but," his face would have lit up, had the smile he managed been real, "we suddenly have all sorts of time again, don't we?"

What Willy was saying, and what Terence was seeing, didn't gibe at all. Willy was talking about having more time, but acting like it had run out. Where they were wouldn't end the trip, and Willy was inexplicably forlorn. Except it wasn't inexplicable — Willy had wanted to discuss the second reason for his, Terence's, presence in Chartres, in Chartres, but he had put him off. So Willy had given him this opportunity to bring it up, and he hadn't — but he should have, that was plain. Willy, having put the matter aside until they were back, must now be assuming the worst. Time to put his cards on the table, Terence decided, but right this minute, Willy was too down to bring it up.

Terence looked for something to say to lighten the mood, until he could explain; something that had nothing to do with anything important, and he found it. "When did you do that?" he asked, and pointed at Willy's throat. The 'W' brooch was back in place. It had the desired effect. Willy laughed.

"During the light show." Willy held out his hands. The black gloves were gone. In their place were a pair of extremely thin, cobalt blue gloves, made of a material Terence had never seen. "Those black gloves couldn't handle the pin on this brooch at all," stated Willy, positively.

"Where was this pair?"

"Underneath the black ones." His voice smug, Willy clearly thought this very clever.

"Where was the brooch?"

Willy extended his arm, and lowered his head until the his hat fell off. Then, using his outstretched arm, he flipped the hat down its length, until he caught the brim in his fingers. In one fluid motion, he showed the upside down hat to Terence, and replaced it on his head. "In the lining."

"I bet a pocket would have done the trick."

Willy was more himself. "Yeah, but where's the fun in that? Let's go to the Factory."

* * *

True to his word, Willy took them to the Factory, but settled, they were not_ in_ the Factory, they were _on_ the Factory. Willy had landed the Elevator on the semi-circular roof of the factory, to the right of the entrance, half-way up the façade, beneath a windowed area with six chimneys, in two rows of three, behind it. It was a nice view of the town, with Charlie's house clearly visible at the bottom of the hill.

Having landed and shut the machine down, Willy turned to Terence, prepared to speak, but Terence spoke first. "This Elevator is the second reason you wanted me to go with you," he said. "It's quite spacious, isn't it?"

Willy's eyebrows climbed at the word 'spacious'. "And you're using that word deliberately?" he asked, quietly, his voice like silk.

"I am," Terence assured him.

Willy was more than relieved. Terence had brought up the subject himself! If he hadn't, it would mean that he had miscalculated about Terence, and as much as Willy hated miscalculation, miscalculating about Terence was a bleak thought he would rather not consider. Even better, with the word 'spacious', Terence had let him know they were on the same page. So, it was with great satisfaction that Willy replied, succinctly, "it is."

Relaxed now, Willy slid to the floor of the Elevator, and arranged himself comfortably, his legs drawn up, his shoulders leaning against the back wall, his place giving him a clear view of the town. Deciding the hat needed to come off, Willy placed it carefully on the floor next to him. Looking up at Terence, he gave the Elevator floor a pat to indicate Terence should join him, jovially declaring, "I've been researching you since the day you arrived back in town."

Terence slid to the Elevator floor, ready to hear all about himself. It _was_ spacious; there was plenty of room. Sitting cross-legged, Terence took up a spot in the center of the Elevator, perpendicular to Willy.

Willy gave Terence a chance to get settled. "You have no idea how talented the Oompa-Loompas are at hacking," he began, "and I'm no slouch myself." Willy looked pleased for a moment, before turning toward Terence, his brows furrowed. "Do you have any idea how many databases you are _not_ on?"

Terence knew there was no need to answer that particular question.

Willy grinned as he shook his head. "It's staggering. All those haystacks, and no needle!"

"I'm feeling pretty sharp," said Terence.

Willy gave an appreciative little laugh, as he re-arranged himself against the Elevator. Holding his walking stick by its middle, he started slowly swapping it from hand to hand. "Now, you might just be the sort of person who drops out of society, and no one takes an interest in… lucky people… but _that_ sort of person doesn't generally own the investment account you do, because that _is_ one data base you _are _on." Willy looked over at Terence. "You paid cash for the shop you don't need."

"I pay cash for everything," was Terence's simple reply, "and I'd be bored doing nothing."

Willy ignored him, tilting his head toward a corner of the ceiling, his hand on his chin. "What occupation comes to mind when you combine a lucrative bank account with invisibility?"

Terence hoped this question was rhetorical, because lots of occupations came to mind. But he hardly waited a minute before discovering the one that Willy fancied.

Leaning forward intently, Willy told him. "The job that comes to mind is — SPY!" Leaning back, Willy launched his walking stick straight into the air a few inches, and caught it. Behind his sunglasses, Willy looked Terence in the eyes, and said, quite happily, "I think you were a spy."

Willy's demeanor was not at all what Terence expected. "Knowing how you feel about spies, if that's what you think, you don't sound too upset about it," he said.

Willy grinned fiercely. "But you can understand that I don't want to talk to a spy, about spies, spying on _me_, can't you, old sport."

It wasn't a question, and Terence remembered how adamantly Willy had avoided that topic on the night of the tenth. Terence sighed to himself. Best to get all this out in the open, because Willy wasn't right, but he wasn't wrong, either. Terence plowed into it. "If you thought I was a spy, why did you keep sending the chocolate? Why did you send the Golden Ticket? Why did you come yourself?"

Willy laid the walking stick across his legs, balancing it on his knees. "Any spying done here, not involving my Factory, doesn't involve me, and I can't imagine how I could care less. You've never asked to see the Factory, and aside from the first day, you've never come near it. I figured you must have retired. I did say 'were'." Willy looked pensive. "But there's been… activity lately… and 'are' would be a different matter. I thought I should see for myself."

Terence folded his arms. "You seem to be quite the little spy yourself, Mr. Wonka."

Willy frowned at the name, but smiled at the thought, because Terence was right. "'When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.'" Willy tilted his head back, looking at the sky through the ceiling. "I should remember who said that, but I don't."

"Nietzsche," was the laconic response from Terence.

"That's the one," agreed Willy, and they lapsed into a companionable silence. The subject successfully, if a little testily, broached, they took a breather, both pretending interest in the town activity passing by below them.

After a few minutes, Terence broke the silence, with a chuckle. "I'll bet you had a dossier on each of those ticket winning kids, half-an-inch thick."

Willy held up a hand, his thumb and index finger indicating an inch. "I don't do things by halves," he said, lazily.

They lapsed into silence again, enjoying the warmth of the Great Glass Elevator, as the sun shone upon it. Another few companionable minutes later, Terence turned his face to the ceiling, and closed his eyes.

"Willy."

"Terence."

"You said 'activity', and 'lately'. Do you want to hear a story?" Terence opened his eyes to see the reaction.

Willy shifted back and forth slightly with anticipation. "I love a story," he said.

"Okay. Once upon a time…"

"Oh… I love a 'once upon a time story'," interrupted Willy.

"If you interrupt," said Terence softly, "I can't tell the story."

Willy's eyes were dancing, as he made a 'zipper' motion over his pursed lips with his hand. Terence took up where he left off.

"…Once upon a time, when the universe was young, there was a place called 'Space'. It had all kinds of things in it, none of them made by people. Then, centuries and centuries and centuries went by, and people learned how to put things into space. They called them satellites."

Willy was smiling.

"The satellites did all kinds of things. Some helped with communication. Some took pictures of the Earth. Some made global positioning possible." Terence paused. "Some of the satellites the military sent up."

Willy frowned.

"There was one satellite the military sent up, that wouldn't stay up."

The smile was back on Willy's face.

"This satellite kept falling out of orbit, which made the military very unhappy. They tried everything they could think of to keep the satellite in orbit, but nothing worked. Every time they sent this particular satellite up, down it would go. It was costing the military lots and lots of money, and everyone in the government was getting very, very angry. So they set up a satellite to watch the satellite."

Willy sat bolt upright. "They set up a satellite to SPY on a satellite?" he squeaked out.

"They sure did," said Terence. "You know what they saw?"

Willy nodded his head. He had a pretty good idea what they'd seen. "A rectangular object pushing the satellite out of orbit?"

"That's what they saw, alright."

Willy had a thought. "How well did they see it?"

"Not as well as they would have liked. But they were able to see it was man-made, and they traced it to the vicinity of this Chocolate Factory."

Willy slumped. "So they sent you."

"Heavens, no!" exclaimed Terence, dismissively waving his hand, exactly the way Willy would. "No need to. You were giving a tour..." Terence smirked, "a GOLDEN opportunity to get into the place no one gets into."

Willy groaned.

"So they sent Mike Teavee's father." Terence sighed. "Except, he wasn't Mike Teavee's father."

Willy's eyes, had Terence been able to see them, were the size of saucers. "Ohhhh… that is… soooo…. sneaky!" he breathed. "And I missed that? Jeepers creepers!" He reached for his hat, and put it on. "This is _exactly _why I keep people out of my Factory!" Jumping up, Willy paced a lap around the Elevator, stopped, looked at Terence, and sat back down, cross-legged, facing him. "Those two didn't seem like a pair at all," Willy rattled off. "The little Teavee was soooo much smarter, but the older Teavee started off the questions about the Factory, had no qualms about arguing with me, and by the time we left the Nut Sorting Room, I had the feeling he didn't believe a word I said! He was sure taking notes in Television Chocolate, though; really changed his tune when he saw that." Willy stopped and thought. Holding his right elbow in his left hand, he tapped his right index finger against his cheek. "That explains the Taffy Puller, though. Yeah… the Taffy Puller! I was only half serious about that idea, but that pater went for it with nary a pause!" Willy laughed spitefully. "He probably didn't want to return damaged goods to the _real _pater! Ha! The irony is killing me."

Finished with his story, Terence sat quietly, waiting for Willy to finish his tirade.

Returning to the present, Willy studied the silent Terence. "Isn't there more?" he asked.

Terence shook his head. "No. I think that about covers it."

"But what did they decide?"

"Straight out, or sugar-coated?"

"Surprise me."

"Based on that guy's report, they decided anyone who acts the way you do, couldn't possibly have anything to do with space travel, and they wonder how you keep the Chocolate Factory running."

Willy's face went blank for a minute while he digested what Terence had just said. Soon he began to chuckle softly to himself, the chuckles gaining momentum, until they became peals of laughter that rivaled the fit outside the cathedral. Terence watched it all stoically. Finally, Willy put his face in his hands and sighed. Looking up, he said to Terence, "Saved by the cracks."

"The cracks?"

Willy nodded. "Sometimes ya gotta be serious — the rest of the time, the in-between times — those are the cracks. You can behave any way you like in the cracks, it doesn't matter." He grinned. "After all these years, I have my Factory running so smoothly, nearly all the time is an in-between time, and I can be as silly as I like — or not. There's just no reason not to have fun, if you can have it," Willy finished wistfully, before frowning. "I'm surprised more people don't get that. Hey!" Willy's eyes narrowed. "How do you know all this, if you're not the spy?"

Terence smiled a tight smile. "Because apparently, at least one of the people reading that report _does_ get it. There's no denying you have a method for shrinking things. So, after the tour, seeing I had retired here, they came to me. Seems they realize you and I met in school. Told me the story, they did, and asked if I'd keep an eye out, because that _is_ my specialty," Terence cocked his head, "the one lucrative thing I used to do — reconnaissance. I'm pretty good at gathering information, finding missing things; but hardly ever for the government, and _corporate_ espionage was _never_ my thing; mostly, I looked for missing people. Some of the families were very generous in their thanks, if, or when, I found the missing people.

"But you've had training," said Willy.

Terence raised his brows in a silent question.

"Square Candies that Look Round," answered Willy. "A trusting person would say, 'oh', and pick it up. An untrusting person would say, 'oh', and recoil." He nodded seriously. "Maybe into something worse. But with training," he held his right index finger skyward to help make the point, "No 'oh', no move, only a flick that sends the thing away for examination later. You know... what you did."

Terence was a bit taken aback. "You mean you brought that thing to see what I'd do?"

"Sorry," Willy had the decency to look chagrined, "but yes. Gathering information, don't cha know." Willy could see Terence didn't look any happier. He smiled hopefully. "Made me feel pretty confident you were the right person to have along to run interference…" Willy let the sentence trail off, his voice soft.

Terence had no choice but to laugh, and he did.

Willy smiled, but he wasn't done. "I assume you took the job."

"Had to," Terence answered, shortly. "If I hadn't, they'd have sent someone else."

"Good point," allowed Willy. "Thank you, I think."

"You're welcome, and I know. That was a few days ago. I told them I doubted I'd have much luck, as reclusive as you are, and then, out of the blue, you show up, and prove me wrong." Terence smiled a rueful smile.

"And didn't that work out well," sighed Willy, happily. "Which reminds me," he took out his pocket watch, checking it, "this conversation is not the only reason we're here. Charlie should be along any time now." With that pronouncement, Willy moved back to his original position, with his back against the far wall of the Elevator, the better to watch the hill.

Terence gave the hill a glance. "Why do you think he'll come? And how do you know he didn't come earlier?"

"My dear Terence," chortled Willy, "how can you ask? I sent my best spy to Charlie's house, with notes, last night, and he tells me they chose my Factory, so Charlie will be bringing me a list, and the note you delivered to Mrs. Bucket said that I wouldn't be receiving callers until after four o'clock today." Willy put the watch back in its pocket. "It's just coming four now. Help me watch."

Terence obligingly took up a place a few feet from Willy at the back of the Elevator.

"Look for a flash of silver," said Willy, when they had settled themselves.

Terence gave it a thought, asking, "The dome on the platter?"

"That would be it," said Willy. "That's why I sent it. It will be like a beacon, very useful." He rolled the walking stick he had retrieved from the floor back and forth in his hands. "There is no way Mrs. Bucket will keep that even one day longer than she has to." His voice became silky. "It's far too ostentatious."

"Willy."

"Terence."

"Aren't you worried about this satellite situation?"

"Before he left the Factory, Charlie said he and his Grandpa Joe were at your shop yesterday morning."

Terence raised a brow. "So?"

"So you didn't come to the Factory. I'm sure Charlie asked you to, it's something he would do. So I started to stop worrying about it then. You were doing what _I _would have wanted, not what _they _would have wanted. Hence this morning."

"You decided last night to ask me to go with you this morning, because of what I didn't do yesterday morning?"

"Hey," objected Willy mildly, "I thought you said you didn't speak 'Wonka'." Glancing at Terence out of the corner of his eye, he saw Terence crack a smile. "I was testing assumptions this morning," Willy said softly, knowing Terence was listening. "If you were working against me, when you saw the Elevator, you'd have barraged me with a litany of questions. By describing it, I made it plain I'd answer. You only asked one." Willy looked at the floor. "And I may be wrong, but I like to think that if you're working against me, you wouldn't have come with me." He paused. "But you did." Willy rested his chin on the arms he had crossed over his knees, his gaze fastened resolutely on the hill. "I'm finished worrying about it now. I didn't have the situation quite right, but I had it close enough, and most importantly, I don't think I misjudged you."

Terence had been listening. It was a minute before he spoke, because he found he had to clear his throat before he could. "This isn't the Elevator they're interested in."

Willy swiveled his head to take in the Elevator, and chuckled. "It sure isn't." He pointed to the Experimental registration etched neatly, but inconspicuously into the side. "That registration, asking for a block airspace — they sure do know about this one!" He leaned toward Terence conspiratorially. "And they know it isn't capable of achieving orbit. But _you_ know I told you I have others, and you suspect one of them _is _capable, and you're right!" Willy grinned, but not for long. "What'd they tell you about the satellite?"

"Nothing. Everything about it is 'need to know', and as far as they're concerned, I don't need to know." Terence pursed his lips. "I object to that, by the way — I'm not a mushroom."

Willy nodded, hearing what he expected to hear. "It's a nasty satellite, Terence." His arms still wrapped around his knees, Willy rocked back and forth, thinking about it. "It's in a Near Polar Orbit, which means they can position it over virtually every part of the Earth, and all it has on it is a camera, a tracking device, and a very powerful pinpoint laser. It's only function is to vaporize a target, and I don't agree with the concept. So it's possible I may, ah… interfere… with it... somewhat."

"Whose is it?" asked Terence.

"I can't imagine how that would matter," Willy shot back contemptuously. "I don't like it."

Terence returned a wry smile. "If you're knocking it out of orbit, 'somewhat', and 'I don't like it', are understatements."

Willy shrugged, and then brightened. Somber wasn't his style, and it made him impatient. "So is this catch and release, or am I still on the hook?" This was the question he wanted answered, and only Terence could tell him.

"I'm a big fan of catch and release," came Terence's quick response, followed by a sigh. "I never was in the military you know. My Dad was, but not me."

Terence proceeded to fill Willy in on his former life, and Willy listened, with no interruptions. It started with Terence's father's contacts contacting Terence, about a mole that needed ferreting - a mole that led to off-the-books training, and off-the-books investigations. The skills learned had turned in other directions, for other uses, but underneath it all, and always, Terence, like a sailor, lived a life in search of the horizon, and that search never ends. Willy was listening to the life of a nomad, and after a while, he listened with half an ear, wondering if the nomad had really made camp, wondering if that was even possible.

Terence was wrapping it up. "I quit because I'm getting too old for this, and I can't tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore. Reconnaissance is not a job you can do with doubts, and that's all I have. So here I am, out of it, and they want to rope me back into it for the sake of the well-being of some killer satellite." Terence looked disgusted. "Well, I don't particularly care to play, and I don't think I will." He met Willy's gaze. "So I'd say you've got yourself a spy. They think they've got themselves a spy, but there's nothing you can show me that I won't report to them in the most bizarre, misleading way, if at all."

"Goody!" Pushing his musings to the back of his mind, Willy laughed with delight. "I love bizarre, and misleading is good, too. We'll cook up a story that gets me out of their sights for the last one — I have a good one in mind — and take care of the next satellite when they send it up!"

Terence frowned. "I think we can cook up a story, but I think you'll have to leave the next satellite alone."

"Whatever you say, Terence," laughed Willy, in the most unconvincing way. "Look! There's Charlie!"


	23. The Discovery

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_My thanks to all my reviewers, and especially to __**dionne dance **and **Squirrela**: your continued encouragement is very much appreciated! _

* * *

It was the sun, well into morning, that woke Charlie on Saturday, and he squirmed contentedly, snuggling deeper under his quilt, happy it wasn't hunger for a change. He felt wonderful; the deliciousness of last night's dinner hadn't worn off. The morning only got better. Could that be the smell of frying bacon reaching him under the quilt? Maybe that was what woke him up. He poked his head out from under the quilt, adjusting the pillow for the best view of the Factory. There it was, the way it was every morning, but this morning was completely different. This morning he was one of the few people who had seen the Factory _from the inside_.

Charlie leapt out of bed, trying to decide what was the best thing — the food, the chocolate, the candy, the golden ticket, the Factory, the tour — but he ended the contest in his head by laughing, because he'd already told his family what the best thing was — it was meeting Mr. Wonka! He flew down the ladder and smack into his mother.

"Hey, sleepy head, open yours eyes," she scolded mildly. "You almost knocked me over!"

"Sorry, Mum," said Charlie. "Morning everyone!"

"Morning, Charlie!" came the chorus of grandparents. His Dad's voice was missing; he had already left to look for work shoveling snow, or any other job, he could find. Food was one thing, but there were still other problems.

Charlie was grabbing his coat from the hook near the door.

"And just where do you think you're going young man?" came his mother's stern voice.

"To thank Mr. Wonka, Mum. I need to do that right away!"

His mother reached for the coat and hung it back on the hook. "We certainly will thank Mr. Wonka, but not before breakfast, and not even after that. He's not seeing visitors until after four o'clock today."

Grandpa George gave a snort. "Since when does he see visitors ever? Hey!" Grandpa Joe had launched his pillow at him, Grandma Georgina threw it back, Grandma Josephine made a 'tsk' noise, and Mrs. Bucket scowled at him. It was time for Grandpa George to learn that open season on Mr. Wonka was over.

Charlie deflated like a punctured balloon. "How do you know that?" he asked.

"His note. Would you like to read it?" His mother was already handing him the note, because she knew the answer before she asked the question.

Charlie read the note, discovering Mr. Wonka wrote in small, neat, block letters, except for his signature, which was in a flowing script, with the 'W's a riot of curly cues, Terence's last name was 'James', and four o'clock was the earliest he could go to the Factory. He handed the note back to his mother, with a sigh.

His mother tousled his hair affectionately, and dropping her hand to his shoulder, steered him to a place at the table. "It's not as bad at all that. Look at the breakfast food the people from L'usine brought us this morning when they picked up the things from last night, and look," she pointed to the groaning shelves, "they brought us all sorts of other staples as well." Moving to the cook top, she began dishing up Charlie's breakfast, bringing him the heaping plate.

As he took the plate, Charlie could see the stocked shelves, but that made him want to thank Mr. Wonka all the more, and he couldn't help being disappointed that he would have to wait all day before he could. But Charlie didn't have to wait to eat, because everyone else had already eaten. Tucking in, the first forkful of eggs went a long way in dispelling the disappointment he felt, and his plate was clean in no time.

Charlie rose from the table, taking his plate to the sink, but his mother took the plate before he could get there. "I'll do that," she said. "You go out and play, Charlie. It will make the time go faster." She smiled as Charlie headed for the door, pulling on his coat. "Be back by three," she called. "You don't want to miss making the list!"

The door banged shut on Charlie's "Okay!"

* * *

Once outside, Charlie stood on the stoop. It was a ridiculous idea to play. He had met the creative genius responsible for creating his most favorite thing in the world, and he'd seen the inside of it! Life didn't get any better than that, and it didn't take a genius to figure out where he should go now. Charlie headed up the hill. Mr. Wonka couldn't possibly really mean Charlie should wait till four o'clock to say thank you — thank you should be said right away!

But altitude changes your perspective. The excitement, so heady at the bottom of the hill, was considerably diminished by the time Charlie reached the top. Each step closer to the Factory brought new questions, and the questions brought doubts. What if Mr. Wonka was busy? What if Charlie was interrupting him? That wouldn't be good. What if Mr. Wonka had changed his mind about visitors? What if Mr. Wonka didn't want them again? What if, what if, what if? Maybe he _should_ wait until four o'clock.

By now, Charlie stood in front of the Factory gates. They were as solid, and as closed, as they always were. How would Mr. Wonka know he was here? How do you get in if you are not expected? Charlie didn't think yelling Mr. Wonka's name was a good idea. He studied the bars of the gates. On television, Charlie had seen movies where prisoners run metal things back and forth on the bars of their cells to attract attention. Should he do that? He didn't have a piece of metal, but even if he'd had one, after thinking it over, that didn't seem like a very good idea, either. Did Mr. Wonka have a telephone? Charlie let go of that thought right away. Even if Mr. Wonka did have a telephone, Charlie didn't, and he didn't know the number, anyway. Charlie was at an impasse.

Closing his eyes, Charlie bypassed the impasse by doing what he usually did when he stood on this spot — he breathed deeply the scents coming from the Factory. They were as wonderful as ever. Opening his eyes, Charlie had an idea, and without another look at the Factory, he started off down the hill. He'd go see Terence.

It was a wonderful idea, dashed to pieces when Charlie arrived at the shop and read 'Closed' on the sign on the door. But it was Saturday! The shop couldn't be closed! Terence ought to be here! Charlie rattled the doorknob, not believing it, only to discover the door was truly locked. He pressed his face against the glass of the door, cupping his hands to block out the light. Inside, the shop was dark; there was no one.

Turning away, Charlie made for the corner, walking slowly. The day wasn't quite so happy anymore. It was one thing not to see Mr. Wonka, that was kind of expected, and four o'clock would come eventually, but the disappointment he felt when he discovered Terence wasn't around, surprised him. Terence, oh yeah, the note said his name was 'James'… Mr. James was exactly the person he could pass the time with — Mr. James was Mr. Wonka's friend.

Reaching the corner, Charlie decided to go home. Obviously, he wasn't going to get into the Factory now. Obviously… obviously… Charlie hummed the word in time with his steps. Obviously… obviously… he stopped walking. The obvious isn't obvious at all… Charlie turned. Test assumptions… Mr. Wonka had said that! Charlie ran back to the top of the hill, as fast as he could.

* * *

Charlie stood in front of the Factory gates for the second time that day. He had rattled the doorknob at Terence's shop, to see if it was really locked. Why hadn't he done that here? He smiled to himself. One reason was, and he thought Mr. Wonka would appreciate this, there was no doorknob. But he could test assumptions — he could push on the gate. Which one? It was silly to even consider the gates in the middle. Mr. Wonka used them, but it was his Factory, and the tour was a special occasion. Charlie didn't need an opening you could drive a truck through. Charlie selected the smaller gate, to his left, and stood in front of it, holding his breath, his hand reaching out, touching the smooth metal, pushing on it, unsure whether he was feeling it give, ever so slightly, or not.

"Kid, you are wastin' your time," came a sneer from behind him. Charlie snatched his hand back, startled by the sudden noise, pivoting quickly to face the street, the gate where it always was, solidly closed. Two older boys stood on the sidewalk, eyeing him, one of them tossing a football. Without warning, the one with the ball threw it as hard as he could, seemingly right at Charlie, but at the last second, he deflected his wrist, and the ball hit the unyielding gate, hard, and bounced off it, flying back toward the street. The boy maneuvered deftly, catching the ball in triumph.

"See, kid," he said with a snigger, "that gate ain't gonna open, and you ain't gonna get in there, 'cus that's what those gates do — nuthin' …except keep people out." The boy stared a hole into Charlie, narrowing his eyes while he considered a round of shrimp-baiting, calculating percentages. A smart kid would have run, but this little pip-squeak hadn't flinched, hadn't even moved a muscle, so percentages were, he was either brave, or stupid. Brave he could respect, but stupid was a waste of time. Maybe the shrimp was both. Bravely stupid, or stupidly brave, the older boy couldn't make up his mind, but the Factory, looming in the middle distance, was starting to bug him. Hangin' 'round this Factory was never a good idea. The owner didn't like it… and he was as weird, and as unpredictable, as his candy was delicious. Everybody knew that! Deciding he'd had his fun here, the ball thrower caught his buddy's eye, and jerking his head toward the park, disparagingly announced, "Let's get outta here." He rolled his eyes at the Factory. "This place is creepin' me out."

Charlie watched them leave, counting himself lucky, even as he wondered how _anyone_ could think the Factory was creepy, but it was a lesson. It was best no one be around, when he tried again. While Charlie waited for a gap in the foot traffic, he thought about the ball. It had hit the gate pretty hard, and the gate hadn't budged. Maybe he had only imagined the gate giving a little.

The gap in pedestrians finally appeared, and Charlie moved to the gate. Done with suspense, he gave the gate a determined push, and to his happy amazement, it opened as easily as a birthday present. Hardly daring to believe it, Charlie started into the courtyard, only to stop short, the note to his mother popping into his mind. Mr. Wonka had written he was unavailable until four o'clock, and he most likely meant it, because so far, Charlie didn't recall Mr. Wonka saying anything he hadn't meant.

Charlie made up his mind. He pulled his foot back, closed the gate, and stepped away from it, still on the street side. As much as he'd like to, he wouldn't try to say 'thank you' now, but at least he had discovered how he could get into the Factory. It was obvious, after all. Thinking about it, Charlie couldn't resist one more test. He reached out, and pushed on the gate. It opened as easily as the first time, and quickly, Charlie closed it, before temptation got the better of him. Smiling the smile of a person who's discovered something very special, Charlie turned away from the Factory and made his way home, deciding, when he got there, to keep the secret to himself, savoring it, for just a little while longer.


	24. The Edge of Town

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_After a soothing break discovering how Charlie spent his morning, we now return to Terence and Willy, where we left off. My continued thanks to __**dionne dance **and **Squirrela **for your invaluable input and reviews.  
_

* * *

Terence was glad he was sitting on the floor of the Elevator when Willy saw Charlie, because otherwise he would now be hanging on for dear life, and on the floor of the Elevator anyway. Hastily scrambling to his feet, Willy had punched a few buttons that had sent the Elevator shooting skyward, and now here they were, five thousand feet in the air, the rockets silent, momentarily weightless as the trajectory reversed, gravity capturing the Elevator and sending it earthward, Willy standing easily, his head thrown back, laughing with unbridled glee at the impetuousness of the ride. Terence decided there was nothing for it but to enjoy it, Willy certainly was, and free-fall from five thousand feet wasn't something he did every day. Through the floor of the Elevator, Terence watched the earth draw closer, with an almost not feigned, blasé interest.

Willy got serious as the earth came rushing up. He had a specific landing site in mind, but he also wanted to land quietly. It would take pinpoint timing with the rockets, and he relished the challenge. With flawless execution, Willy brought the Elevator to a perfect landing in the relic strewn wasteland that bordered the Bucket house, as quietly as something driven by rockets could manage.

Charlie missed all of it. The bright sunshine on the silver dome of the platter he was carrying, made the silver flash glaringly, and the snow's reflectivity magnified the effect. Charlie kept his eyes on the ground, to avoid being blinded, as he left his house. But he wasn't deaf, and he had only walked a little way toward the hill when he heard what sounded like a jet aircraft, landing behind him. Charlie turned around to see what was making all the racket.

It was the Great Glass Elevator. Astounding to find it out of the Factory, and in his backyard, but it belonged to Mr. Wonka, and Mr. Wonka was astounding, so really, it wasn't really _that_ astounding, and without any thought at all, Charlie promptly changed course.

Mr. Wonka was standing, opening the Elevator doors, and Mr. James was sitting on the floor, his long legs stretched out in front of him, comfortably crossed at the ankles, his back leaning against the Elevator wall. Mr. James waved, making no move to get up, and Charlie, awkwardly balancing the platter, returned the wave with one of his own.

"Charlie," called Mr. Wonka, raising his right arm, his walking stick firmly held in his right hand.

"Mr. Wonka," called Charlie, as he neared the Elevator.

"Mr. Bucket. On your way to the Factory? Can I give you a lift?" Mr. Wonka was smiling happily. "I can't." Mr. Wonka giggled. "A Lift is inside, and this is outside. I have to give you an Elevator."

Mr. Wonka giggled harder, Mr. James shook his head, laughing to himself, and Charlie grinned. Mr. Wonka was in one of those silly, infectious moods that couldn't help but make everyone around him feel happy.

Charlie stepped into the Elevator and only then noticed Mr. Wonka was more somberly dressed today, and looked different somehow. Figuring out what it was, he pointed to Mr. Wonka's feet and said, "Your shoes aren't as tall today."

Willy laughed delightedly, with a sidelong glance at Terence. "Precisely," he purred. "I needed flat shoes today, Charlie, you're very observant." Willy nudged Terence with his foot. "Don't sit there, get up, and help Charlie with the platter."

"You're right," answered Terence, getting to his feet. "Where are my manners?"

"That's okay, Mr. James, you don't have to get up, I can hold it okay. It's easier without the cake on it," Charlie was quick to assure him.

At the sound of 'Mr. James', Terence scowled, and Willy laughed wickedly. It was nice not being the only 'Mister' in the group, but he could see Terence was not best pleased by the development.

"In the note?" came Terence's frosty question.

"To Mrs. Bucket," Willy admitted, surprised this was the first Terence knew of it. It meant Mrs. Bucket hadn't mentioned it, something he was certain she would do. Hmm… "Too late now," Willy hurried on, anxious to change the subject. "Got the list, Charlie?"

Charlie nodded. "It's on the platter."

Willy glanced at Terence, who removed the dome with a flourish. Willy smiled at what he saw. It was a piece of paper, loosely furled around two crochet hooks, different colors of braided crochet thread, tied in a bow in the center, keeping them together. "Whose idea was that?" he asked, as he picked up the makeshift scroll, and untied the bow.

"My Mum's," answered Charlie. "She thought you might like, she said," Charlie wrinkled his brow, remembering, and wanting to get it right, "'a vintage presentation'."

Willy did like the presentation, which he thought imaginative on a crochet-string, with an amusing explanation to boot. "She can be funny, can't she?"

"She said the same thing about you."

Willy frowned and raised an eyebrow, not knowing quite what to make of that remark. Dismissing it, he partially unrolled the scroll. "'Kay then, let's see… number one…" Willy chuckled merrily. "'One of every candy you sell.' Whose idea was that?"

"Grandpa George."

Willy nodded, filing away the information. "Number two…"

"Uh, Willy," Terence was pointing to the side street. A couple of people had stopped, curiously looking at the Elevator. "I suspect the useful life of this spot will be toast in a few minutes."

"Time to move," Willy said, agreeing with Terence's assessment, and thankful for his alertness. Re-rolling it, Willy slipped the improvised scroll into his great-coat pocket. "Let's continue this at the Factory, Charlie," he said, as his hand reached for the controls.

Terence heard his name be conspicuously not mentioned, and to Terence, no mention meant no invitation. Though the day just spent made him think he would get away with it, he didn't want to presume. Forcing the issue, or tagging along, if Willy hadn't definitely made up his mind, was a mistake Terence wasn't going to make. Disappointed, he consoled himself by remembering what Willy had shown him at the labyrinth, earlier in the day. In matters that matter, shortcuts only work short-term — following the path, however long that might take, _is_ the shortest way. Without a word, Terence handed Willy the platter's dome, and moved toward the door of the Elevator.

Taking it, his face becoming an expressionless mask, Willy stepped back, and out of Terence's way. In Willy's experience, people did what they did; they always did, no matter what you did, and what Terence did, or didn't do, wasn't his concern.

Terence stepped into the snow. Without a backward glance, he started across the field, picking his way among the cast-off debris, knowing better, yet unable not to feel a little like a cast-off himself.

Willy watched the retreating figure impassively. Terence had decided to go. He hadn't told him to. Willy allowed his eyelids to droop behind his sunglasses, until his eyes were half-closed. To each his own. Giving Charlie a faint smile, and seeing Charlie faintly return it, Willy reached again for the button that would take them to the Factory. But for the second time, he dropped his hand to his side, without pushing it. Truth be told, he wasn't being fair. He hadn't invited Terence, and Terence knew him too well to miss so important an oversight. Why hadn't he? He trusted him. Their earlier talk had put that issue to rest. Willy placed the dome handed him by Terence on top of the platter Charlie still held, with the smallest of sighs. The only thing Terence was guilty of here was politeness.

Charlie looked from Willy to Terence and back again, not sure what to make of what was happening. Mr. Wonka had only said _his_ name, and now, Terence was leaving. It must be like the day of the tour, but it didn't feel like that. It felt wrong. The platter was getting heavy, and Charlie set it carefully on the floor of the Elevator. Mr. Wonka took no notice.

Willy was watching Terence move away, thinking about Terence, moving away. Because Willy had no doubt _at all_ that was what was going to happen. Terence was going to move away. Again. Terence had told him as much this afternoon — not in so many words, but between the lines. Listening, Willy learned moving on _was_ Terence's life, and this time wouldn't be any different. In his mind's eye, Willy could see it all. He and Terence would have a great time coming up with some bogus report for the authorities, get him off the satellite hook, and then, that done, Terence would pull up stakes, and leave. It was inevitable; that horizon Terence was looking for would always beckon. Willy barely shook his head. That horizon was a fool's errand — Terence wasn't going to reach it this next time, either.

Terence had reached the edge of the field, crossing the street that would bring him to the foot of the hill, Willy staring intently after him, with Charlie, sensing the mood, standing quietly. The curious people had come no closer, but they were talking among themselves, and pointing, and Charlie kept an eye on them.

Willy hadn't moved; he was thinking still. Terence had offered his expertise as a spy, but Willy, while not turning him down, hadn't asked for that, and though Willy had already made some harmless use of Terence's talent, and though it also made this particularly sticky satellite situation easier to deal with, Willy didn't need a spy. By this time, he had proven methods for dealing with the authorities. Crazy-chocolatier-with-more-money-than-brains had worked a treat in the past, and reliable stand-by that it was, it would work again.

No, it wasn't spies or authorities Willy was thinking about now — it was the people who had left over the years, or been told to leave, that had his attention. That was quite a number — more than Willy cared, or bothered, to remember, but the point was, he didn't need all the fingers on one hand to count the ones he missed. Still, there were a few, and of these, Terence was the _only_ one who had made any effort to return. The only one. Willy turned that over in his mind. Today had been a happy day. So had yesterday, and likewise, the evening of the day before. Terence had been a good friend all those years ago, and he was a good friend now. This afternoon, Terence had been honest with him, and that was rare enough in Willy's experience to cherish. So even if he _didn't_ need a spy from the world outside his Factory, if Willy were honest with himself, he'd like to have a friend from there.

Terence's elusive horizon floated back into his head, and Willy lifted his eyes to the horizon at the top of the hill, a smile playing about his lips, because this horizon, _his_ horizon — was filled by a Chocolate Factory. A Chocolate Factory fifty times as big as any other... _his _Chocolate Factory — and what he should do now was staring him in the face. So what if Terence left later? He was here now! Willy laughed, and Charlie smiled. Willy turned, bending at the waist, tapping his walking stick lightly on the floor, once, his decision made. "Charlie? Shall we show Terence a horizon he might like? A substitute for the one he's looking for? For awhile, anyway? Yeah…" Willy laughed again to see Charlie's confusion. "Sorry." Willy crouched down until he and Charlie were sunglasses to eye. "Charlie, I don't want to leave this Elevator, and I don't want to land it on the street. Will you do me a favor?"

"Sure, Mr. Wonka." Charlie was happy to help, whatever Mr. Wonka meant by this talk of horizons.

"Please ask…" Willy paused over the name, "Mr. James…" his voice was crisp, "if he'd like to come with us to the Factory." Willy tilted his head, and giggled. "Tell him, his report isn't complete, unless he does."

Charlie nodded his head, while Mr. Wonka laughed outright for some reason, at his own last remark.

Willy stood up as he watched Charlie dash out of the Elevator, and head for the hill. "And Charlie! Don't take 'no' for an answer!"

* * *

Willy chafed at the wait. He didn't tolerate inactivity well, and leaving an important task to another was nerve-wracking, even when he thought they could handle it. Charlie made good progress over the debris, it was his backyard after all, but Terence studiously ignored, or didn't hear, his calls of 'Mr. James!' — Willy couldn't tell which. Until, that is, Charlie called 'Terence!' and Terence turned around immediately, waiting for Charlie to reach him. Willy sighed. The 'Mr. James' part wasn't working out as well as he'd planned. Willy decided to check on the people collecting on the side street. A third person had joined the first two, and now a fourth person was walking up. He was tall, and lanky, and carrying a snow shovel. Willy sighed again. This was not going the right way at all.

Charlie and Terence ought to be on their way back now. Willy checked; they weren't. Terence crouched by Charlie, engaged in deep conversation, with Charlie listening intently. They ought to be walking, not talking, Willy fretted; or talking and walking — but not talking and not walking! It was exasperating! What about the street people? A war on two fronts is always a mistake, and as far as it concerned Willy, that's what this had turned into. Willy looked back in time to see the fellow with the snow shovel point to him, point to the Factory, and make a large balloon like shape with his arms. What did that mean? Willy looked dubiously on the proceedings, only to smile when three of the people took off — two up the street, and one into a nearby house. The smile left his face when snow-shovel-man started across No Man's Land, heading directly for him. Willy's hand moved to the button that would send the Elevator to the Factory, Charlie and Terence still engrossed in whatever was occupying them.

But he didn't press the button — snow-shovel-man was waving in a quiet, friendly way, not shouting or calling attention to himself, and as he got closer, Willy thought he looked familiar. Closer still, and he was familiar, he was Mr. Bucket. A paren approaching, less than a mile, same altitude! Yikes! But he couldn't leave now, that would look strange, and with Charlie's people, at least for now, Willy wanted 'strange' on the back burner. So swallowing resolutely, Willy stood his ground, standing straight in the Elevator door, both hands solidly clasping the walking stick in front of him. The paren arrived, and Willy, looking up at him, assessed Mr. Bucket as tall, made _very_ tall by the mound of earth he happened to stand on. Willy knew he should say something now, but nothing came to mind, except to ask how the weather was up there, and that was lame, and probably not polite. Willy said nothing, and did nothing, except twist the walking stick under his hands.

Mr. Bucket, for his part, was sure he'd seen a person more nervous than Mr. Wonka was before this, but he couldn't remember where, or when. Maybe at his house, two nights ago? No, that guy was this guy. But Charlie thought the world of this man, and besides the obvious reasons, Mr. Bucket very much wanted to know why. He was never going to find out if Mr. Wonka didn't get over his nervousness, but Mr. Bucket wasn't worried, he had patience. Charlie was quiet, and Grandpa George, his father-in-law, was high-strung. Mr. Wonka was both; but he could work around that — the first thing, omit the small talk. "I saw you had a little fan club going on over there." He made a small gesture with his elbow toward the street. "I sent them away."

Willy relaxed a wee bit; this was something he could answer. "Ah… yeah… I saw that. What'd ya tell 'em?"

"I told them you're Willy Wonka, that you're on private property…"

"Am I?" Willy wondered aloud, looking around. "On private property, I mean? I know I'm Willy Wonka."

"… no idea," confided Mr. Bucket, "…but I told them, if they didn't move along, you'd take them to your Factory in this contraption of yours, and turn them all into blueberries."

Willy's hand flew to his mouth in horror. "You didn't!"

Mr. Bucket nodded in the affirmative.

"I would NEVER take them to my Factory!" Willy was positively aghast at the thought, but he wasn't tense any more.

"I was hoping you'd say you'd never turn them into blueberries."

For half a second Willy froze, but one look at Mr. Bucket's smiling face told him Mr. Bucket was pulling his leg. Willy, answering in that silky voice he had, played along. "I couldn't — even if I wanted to. I don't have any more of that gum."

Mr. Bucket smiled broadly. "So what brings you to our little slice of heaven?"

Willy could relate to the wry humor, and pointed to Terence and Charlie, still deep in conversation on the hill. "I, ah, came to give… Charlie a ride to the Factory." Willy was nervous again.

"Sure..." Mr. Bucket said the word the same way Charlie did. "The list." Mr. Bucket became serious. "Mr. Wonka, about the prize, I, ...the family, Charlie ...we can't thank you enough for your generosity…" He let his voice trail off. Thanking Mr. Wonka meant a lot to Mr. Bucket, but with every word he said, Mr. Wonka looked more and more like he would die of embarrassment. Mr. Bucket changed the subject. "Does this fly?"

Willy sighed with relief at the question, and taking his eyes off the floor, where he had firmly fastened them, he proudly surveyed the Elevator. "It does. Would you like a demonstration?" He stepped aside to allow Mr. Bucket to board. It occurred to him he should probably invite the pater to the Factory, which he fleetingly, and ruefully, considered renaming Grand Central Station. "You can come to the Factory with Charlie. Terence will come, too," he said, adding, "I hope," almost inaudibly. Those two were _still_ talking!

"Thanks for the invite, gotta pass," was Mr. Bucket's unexpected response. "I've got a bunch of chores to do around here before dinner, and my lovely bride will kill me if I go to your Factory without her!" Mr. Bucket stepped in the Elevator. "But a demonstration would be nice." Mr. Bucket loved machines, and anything to do with them.

Happy to show off his invention, Willy smiled one of his brilliant smiles, and Mr. Bucket got the glimpse he wanted of what it was Charlie saw in the man.

"Wedge yourself into a corner, then," Mr. Wonka said as he began pressing buttons on the wall. "It'll be easier to stand that way since you don't have a walking stick. Or you could sit."

Mr. Bucket elected the corner option and Willy gently brought the Elevator to a hover, ten feet off the ground.

"This is amazing!" exclaimed Mr. Bucket.

"This is nothing," said Willy. "Hold on!" Willy sent the Elevator skyward, grinning and waving at Charlie and Terence, who finally _did _stop talking to turn and look at the diminishing speck in the sky. Mr. Bucket got a look at the town from five thousand feet, and then from a thousand feet, and then a one hundred foot hover over the Factory, before Willy returned, to the edge of the field this time, landing near Terence and Charlie, who hurried over, lest they be left again.

Mr. Bucket stepped out of the Elevator, speechless, but smiling from ear to ear. Willy understood the feeling and smiled back. Charlie scampered up and took his dad's hand. "Dad! Was it fun?"

Mr. Bucket glanced at Charlie and squeezed his hand, but his attention was on Mr. Wonka. "Mr. Wonka."

"Willy," said Willy.

"Willy," said Mr. Bucket. "Call me Noah."

"Noah."

"Amazing," was all Noah could manage. He turned to Charlie. "You better get to the Factory, Charlie, so you can get back at a reasonable hour. See that you take good care of Mr. Wonka." He turned back to Mr. Wonka. "Thanks, Willy."

"Nada, Noah. Crochet hooks."

Mr. Bucket, used to Grandma Georgina's verbal rambles, looked only mildly puzzled. Willy motioned for Mr. Bucket to hold out his hand. When he did, Willy dropped the two crochet hooks from the scroll into it. "Tell your... um, bride... I was 'hooked' by the presentation, and thanks for the loan." Willy turned to Terence and Charlie, happily impatient. "So are you two coming or not? If you are, then get in, and let's blow this pop stand!"

Waving to Mr. Bucket, Terence and Charlie boarded the Elevator.


	25. The Office

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Thank you readers, and thank you ____**dionne dance **and **Squirrela. **Feedback is very much appreciated, and your reviews and comments are _invaluable.

* * *

Willy had been humming a Disney tune since he'd returned to the Factory that was making Terence's hair stand on end. Disney was one of his least favorite things. Terence could stand it no longer. "Why are you humming that?" he demanded.

"Knew I'd get cha," was Willy's quick and pleased response, as stepping from the Great Glass Elevator, he led them down a short corridor. Disney was one of his least favorite things, too. "But in this case, it's where we're going."

Charlie didn't see the harm in asking. "We're going to a mine? In Disneyland?" It was a very recognizable tune.

Willy snorted as he wheeled to face Charlie. "My dear child, good heavens, NO, we are not going anywhere _near_ there!" Oops! ...innocent questions. Way too much reaction for those. Willy hastened to soften his words by hurriedly adding, "We're going somewhere way better."

Terence, thinking Willy probably didn't mean to be so intense, held out his hand, and Charlie took it, giving it a little squeeze before letting go. Charlie didn't mind reassuring Terence, but he was a little surprised Terence didn't know Mr. Wonka could react strongly. You only had to taste the magical flavors of his candies to know that underneath it all, he was an intense, expressive person.

"Where _are_ we going?" Terence asked. He had wondered since they'd all gotten in the Elevator, and Willy had pushed only one button, labeled 'Heigh Ho'.

"My office."

Terence was incredulous. "Your office is better than Disneyland?"

Charlie's thought — You have an office? — he kept to himself.

Willy made a dubious face. "Well, maybe not, but it _is_ closer. It's right here." Willy had stopped in front of a pair of ten foot tall, arched, double mahogany doors, the top third emblazoned with the same intertwined 'W's found above the Factory gates. The 'W's, made of various shades of lighter inlaid woods, created a shadow effect, in an arch that matched the arch of the doors. The craftsmanship was superb.

Terence thought it very elaborate for something no one was going to see, until he realized the Factory had been designed and built during a time when Willy believed it would be seen, by all sorts of people, doing business with him. It hadn't worked out that way; but it was still magnificent.

Charlie's voice broke the unexpected moment of quiet. "I think a ride in the Great Glass Elevator beats any ride Disneyland might offer."

Opening both doors as wide as they would go, Willy smiled appreciatively at the sentiment, ushering them into the room. The doors had only been a prelude to the grandeur of the space itself. The room was large, with the ceiling fifteen feet above them. The entire back wall was given over to floor to ceiling shelves, with almost every inch of these filled by thick, evenly graduated, leather-bound books. Over-sized volumes occupied the lower shelves, with the height of the volumes, and the shelves themselves, diminishing as they climbed. A tapered ladder, with rollers attached to a rail that ran across the length of the wall near the ceiling, allowed access to any volume, on any shelf.

On the wall opposite, centered, and occupying a third of the area, was a floor to ceiling window made from squares of frosted glass. On closer inspection, some squares were more frosted any others, with the sizes varying to pick out the trademark Wonka 'W' in a mosaic, turned on its side and flowing upward, for almost the entire length of the window. On the far wall, to the left of the window, was an antique drafting table, with a matching stool.

A chocolate-brown leather sofa, with pillow top arms, and a gently curving back, was flanked by two matching arm chairs, all three pieces arranged around a low oval table, set back from, but centered on, the window. Low ottomans of the same leather sat in front of the chairs, and to Charlie, they could be seats, or steps, for the Oompa-Loompas; the table height was just right for them.

Mr. Wonka's desk, standing before the shelves, and facing the conversation area, didn't have a right-angle on it. Made of mahogany, and kidney-shaped, with an inset leather top in three sections, it was just large enough not to be dwarfed by the room, and had all the things you'd expect to see on an office desk, on it, except clutter.

Willy threw his great-coat on one of the arm chairs, having first retrieved the list from its pocket, the sunglasses following. "You can do the same," he said, and moved to a set of shelves, recessed into the near wall, behind a bar area, to the right of the window. There were two doors that matched the wall, each leading to a smaller room, on either side of the shelves.

"How do you get 'office' out of 'Heigh Ho'," asked Terence, following Willy's example, and throwing his coat on the chair. Charlie followed suit.

"Like this!" Willy had taken a pile of unspent Euros out of his frock coat pocket, which he dumped into a brass spittoon filled with them, on the middle shelf. "Heigh Ho Silver! And not a moment too soon! They were ruining the drape of this coat!"

Willy sounded too sincere about his last comment for Terence to laugh. He noticed the Euros spittoon sat between matching spittoons filled with US silver Dollars on one side, and British Pounds on the other. "Your bank?" Terence smirked.

"Personal ATM," Willy smugly replied. His candy filled cane lay on the shelf, and he swapped it with the black and gold walking stick, before heading to his desk.

"Spittoons?"

"A better use than the disgusting habit they were designed for." Willy propped the candy-cane handily at the corner of the desk, and took a seat in the high-backed, low armed, over-sized, chocolate-brown, leather office chair. "Don't you think they look like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Pot of silver, in this case?"

Terence thought they did, and Charlie nodded in the affirmative for them both. Mr. Wonka's office was almost larger than his entire house.

Terence draped himself in the other arm-chair. The leather felt buttery, the chair like a cloud. "Willy."

"Terence."

"You could use paper money, or plastic, and avoid the damage to your coat."

"But then, no 'heigh ho silver', and genuine plastic? No way!" Willy frowned as he placed his top hat on the edge of the desk, and smoothed out the list.

"But what about the song?" asked Charlie, while thinking to himself that without the top hat, Mr. Wonka's haircut looked funnier than ever. But, by seeing the hat and the haircut separately, it dawned on Charlie they were _meant_ to be seen together. The hair set off the top hat, and that made the top hat important.

Willy's eyes were sparkling as he leaned forward, smiling mischievously at Charlie. "Exactly, Charlie, what about the song? That's the main reason I labeled that button that way: 'Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to work we go.' This is the only place in the Factory where I feel like I'm working. I hate doing paperwork, and as you can see from the desk, Doris hates me doing paperwork, too." Willy included Terence, with a glance. "Doris oversees all the Administration functions of the Factory. She's the Eshle of Administration! She keeps as much paperwork away from me as she can, but some of it is unavoidable." Willy sat back. "But it's not all work." He pointed to the computer monitor. "I design things here, too, and I enjoy that."

Willy picked up the list, and burst into giggles immediately. Charlie smiled, too, because he knew what Mr. Wonka was reading. "Number two…" Willy read aloud, for Terence's benefit. "One of every candy you've perfected, but _don't_ sell." Willy raised an eyebrow at Charlie.

"Grandpa Joe. He really liked the exotic candies he tried in the Chocolate Room, and he said you don't sell any of them."

"Number two ain't gonna happen." Willy was adamant, but he was also smiling. "Nothing leaves this Factory that isn't patented. Your Grandpa Joe is welcome to visit, with you, Charlie, if he'd like to have some of those." Willy returned to the list. "Number three… Dragonflies." Charlie started to explain, but before he could, Willy excitedly cut him off. "Wait, wait, don't tell me — Terence sorta already did, it's Grandma Georgina."

Charlie nodded. "Mum wanted everyone to have a say, and that's all she would say, so we put it down."

"Umm…" Willy's eyes had gotten dreamy, the list forgotten in his hand, as he stared at a point, five hundred miles beyond the frosted window. The minutes ticked by as he imagined dragonflies, with gooey centers, and gummy bodies, with spun sugar wings, and iridescent candy eyes, perched on a stained glass picture of a cattail, or water-lily. Dragonflies… the perfect three-D additions to the edible stained glass designs. What about other bugs?

Terence and Charlie exchanged glances as Willy sat, staring, and motionless.

"Earth to Willy," said Terence softly.

"Mr. Wonka?"

"What?" was the groggy response. Willy returned to the room, aware once again of his guests. "Thinking; back, now. Is there any actual food on this list?"

Charlie said nothing, but looked at the floor. Grandma Josephine had asked for 'nutritious vegetables'; it was the next thing on the list. Charlie was afraid Mr. Wonka might say 'cabbages', but he needn't have worried. Reading it, Mr. Wonka took one look at Charlie, and moved on. That was the last request on the list. Number four was a long paragraph written by Mrs. Bucket explaining that the food already sent put the Bucket food storing capabilities in an over fill situation, with the lack of an adequate freezer presently solved by mother nature's obligingly appropriate temperature, which, as unreliable as it was, wouldn't last beyond the season. Willy stared into space again, but the stare only went as far as the ceiling. A freezer… what about a refrigerator… how big could they be… what about electricity to run them? Practical details he hadn't thought about, and didn't have answers for.

Terence provided a welcome distraction. He had moved to the window and discovered some of the panes were clear. He could see they were above the roof where the Elevator had sat, earlier in the afternoon. "Isn't your office a bit far from the entrance?"

"Reception isn't. It _looks_ like my office, but isn't." Willy saw no point in mentioning that he hadn't used it for years.

Charlie provided the next, even more welcome, distraction. He had moved to the shelves at the back of the room. "You have a lot of books, Mr. Wonka."

Willy got up from the desk, and moved to stand next to Charlie. "You think so?" He grinned slyly. "If you look carefully, you'll see they're not books." He pulled one out, read the title on the spine, and handed it to Charlie. "This one says _Ebullire Bibere Elevatis_. That means 'Fizzy Lifting Drink', as near as I can get it, in Latin. They didn't have a word for 'fizzy', so I had to use 'bubbly'."

Charlie saw the thing Mr. Wonka gave him _wasn't_ a book. It was a sleeved metal file box, with an added leather spine. Charlie looked closely at Mr. Wonka. With a tilt of his head, Mr. Wonka nodded. Charlie pulled out the inner sleeve, and saw papers; lots of papers.

"Those are all my notes, the patent, and the recipe, for Fizzy Lifting Drinks," said Willy, with a smirk. "If you're a speed reader, with a photographic memory, I'm in big trouble."

Charlie replaced the sleeve, handing the file back to Mr. Wonka. "You're safe from me," he said, with a sigh. "I'm not any of those things."

"You don't have to be," said Willy quietly, replacing the file on the shelf.

Terence was leaning against the window, having finished picking his jaw up from off the floor. "You mean you just showed us where all your recipes are? This is them?"

Willy smiled gently. "They were here when you walked in, and not just the recipes. All the designs to my machines, and this Factory, are here as well." He surveyed the wall. "I'm kinda running outa room." Willy crossed back to his desk. "And no, I'm not worried. Charlie, take that file back out, will you?"

Charlie reached for the file. It won't budge, not even a whisker.

Willy was brusque, though he didn't mean it. "You can try if you like, Terence, but it won't do you any good, either. Unless of course, you can overcome 1500 psi, and I wouldn't put too much stock in that particular number being accurate."

Terence thought for only a moment. "Magnetic locks?"

Willy nodded. "Individually, to each other, and to the shelves."

"Electricity being the Achilles heel."

Willy laughed. "There's always something. Which is why I make my own, and have more than one source. But even so, there are other safe-guards." Willy was going to say 'it's actually harder to get out of this Factory, than it is to get into it', but looking back at Charlie, listening to the conversation, he decided that might sound creepy, and bit back the words.

"Which ones are the Factory?" Charlie asked, his eyes eagerly searching.

Willy pointed. "Oversized, bottom shelves."

"And the machines?"

"Interspersed." Charlie's questions pleased Willy. Charlie was taking an interest, and right away.

Terence didn't move from where he was. He appreciated the demonstration; misdirection is easier if you know the right direction, and for the second time that day, he said, "I'm flattered," but this time, he added a bow, because he really was, very flattered.

Smirking, and happy, Willy returned the bow with one of his own, his perfect teeth gleaming, and plopping back down in his office chair, he felt so good, he made a mistake. He asked Charlie if Charlie would like to learn how to make candy recipes of his own.

Charlie's answer was music to Willy's ears, until the first 'but'. At that 'but' — the music stopped. Terence, standing by the window, saw all of it. Charlie, standing by the files, saw none of it. If he had, he'd have stopped talking.

With every politely phrased reason it wasn't a good idea Charlie expressed, Willy, listening to what amounted to psychic paper cuts, curled further into his chair. What, Charlie asked, did Charlie know about flavors? Charlie pointed out he lived on cabbage. Willy brought his feet up, his knees at his chin. How, Charlie asked, could he know if he had any talent for making recipes? Willy's arms encircled his legs, just below his knees. Getting water to boil, the entire extent of his skills, Charlie sighed, is not much of an indicator. Willy's hands tightened on his elbows. Charlie unknowingly saved the worst for last — not wanting to disappoint someone he held in such high regard — by starting a thing at which he might prove no good, and couldn't finish. Willy buried his head in his knees, his eyes closed. The disappointment Willy felt, by Charlie's not wanting to disappoint him, was dreadful, and mockingly ironic.

Charlie's voice trailed off, his reasons trickling to an end. Willy knew all about the infamous mixed signal 'yes, but…', but he also knew there is really no such thing as a mixed signal; they were only hooks, or illusions. Everything that is not a 'yes' is a 'no'. Charlie had said 'no', as politely as he could. The black stones that defined the borders of the labyrinth's path surfaced in Willy's mind. To his regret, in his zeal, he had overstepped them, rushing the question, and it was a set back. Like broken rigging littering a deck — the black lines slowing you down, tripping you up, entangling you — he must clear aside the mistake. He was sure he could do it, but at this exact moment, the 'how' escaped him.

Willy held the comforting hug, his own hug, until he heard Charlie moving. Quickly, Willy unfolded himself, and reaching for his hat, perched on the side of the desk, with utmost calm, he put it on. Willy took full responsibility for this turn of events. Charlie, like Terence, had done nothing but answer him honestly, and everything Charlie had said was true. As Charlie moved to the side of the desk, Willy, sitting properly, his hands folded in front of him, stared at his desk top, hoping it would reveal the way forward.

It didn't, and in the silence, Terence thought sadly to himself that Willy had accomplished something he had set out to do. He had made it possible for Charlie to turn him down, and Charlie had. What do you say to someone who gets the wish they never wanted? Terence was at a loss to know.

Willy broke the silence. It wasn't fair to Charlie to let him feel any worse than he might already feel by saying nothing. Deferring the problem till later was the answer for now. "I shouldn't have asked you that Charlie," Willy said, still staring at the desk top. "Forget I brought it up, 'kay?"

Charlie didn't reply. Instead, he picked up the cane with the colorful candy in it, that stood near him, leaning against the corner of the desk. It was the one Charlie had seen Mr. Wonka carry the other times he had seen him. He held it until Mr. Wonka looked at him, and that took awhile. When he did, Charlie solemnly handed him the cane.

Willy solemnly took it, and laying the cane across the desk, he sat back, but his eyes never left it. Nerds filled the cane, one of his first candy ideas. It was enticing. Leaning forward, Willy rolled the cane back and forth beneath his hand. It had spiraling ridges that made a rhythmic noise against the leather desk top, but even better was when the ridges caught the light. Willy held the cane up, rotating it, pleased when he had the angle right, and the cane flashed. He smiled at Charlie's cleverness. The flash of light! The perfect antidote for the darkness of disappointment. Willy swiveled his chair to face Charlie, and looked into his eyes. Very slowly, to say thank you, he lowered the cane to Charlie's left shoulder, looking for all the world like he was knighting him, but having placed it there, Willy left it there, the cane resting lightly in his hand, and on Charlie's shoulder.

Terence watched the tableaux. The two were wordless for minutes, but Terence could tell they were communicating volumes to each other. After a bit, Charlie smiled, and brought his left hand up to rest on the cane at his shoulder. Willy returned the smile, and withdrew the cane.

"Terence," Willy said, turning his chair back to face the window and Terence, "I thought I could do more today, but you can put a fork in me, I'm done. Cooked. Toast. You name it. Would you please see that Charlie gets home?"

Terence laughed, relieved. The past three days' activity would exhaust anyone, but especially Willy, who wasn't used, at all, to people. "Glad to."

"Charlie, I have a note to write to your…" Willy, anticipating their reaction, held up a hand to stave off the volunteerism with the word, "let's all learn some latin, mater, she's brought up some logistical points that need addressing."

While Willy wrote, Charlie wandered over to the drafting table positioned along the far wall to the left of the window. Terence joined him. "What's this Mr. Wonka?"

Willy glanced up, and back down, continuing to write. "Drafting table," was his curt response. But when he finished writing, and having put the note in an envelope, Willy joined them, running his gloved hand over the drafting table's surface, with the same care he lavished on the Great Glass Elevator.

Terence concluded it must be one of Willy's prized possessions. Willy's next comment made him certain of it.

"I've had this since forever." Willy's voice was dreamy. "I designed the Factory on it."

Charlie stretched out his hand to touch it, too. The Factory! Wow!

Willy laughed. "I use CAD now. Faster, easier, but not the same flavor, eh?" He handed the envelope to Charlie.

"I'll see my mater gets this. Thanks, Mr. Wonka," said Charlie, taking it.

Willy laughed again, and made for the door, with Charlie and Terence in tow.

* * *

Back in the Great Glass Elevator, Willy pushed a button labeled 'Sartre'. Terence wasn't going to ask, but he spent the time traveling dredging up what he remembered about Jean-Paul Sartre. Very little came to mind, but he did remember a play called _No Exit_.

The Elevator came to a stop in the antechamber at the Factory's main entrance. Stepping into the Main Hall, Terence marveled at the seemingly endless corridor! Charlie chuckled because he knew it was all an illusion, and he was glad to know he wasn't the only one fooled by it. Willy smiled too; maybe there _was _time to show Terence the Chocolate Room, but no, he, Willy, was tired, and making mistakes, and getting cranky. The Chocolate Room was best left for another day. Instead he said, "Because, if it's no exit_, _because you're coming in, then it's an entrance, and if it's no entrance, because you're going out, then it's an exit! It works no matter what you're doing."

"How did you know I was wondering about that?" asked Terence, with a chuckle.

"Because, my dear Terence, sometimes you think as loudly as cogs screaming for grease." Willy's smile was ear to ear, as he headed back to the Elevator. The day was going to end nicely. And then it didn't.

"Come on, Terence," said Charlie.

Willy spun on his heel. "WAIT!"

Charlie and Terence froze for an instant at the unexpectedness of the command, before turning back curiously.

Willy was speaking softly now, and calmly. "Charlie. You just called Terence 'Terence', and you know his name is Mr. James."

Charlie nodded. "That's what we were talking about on the hill, Mr. Wonka."

Mr. Wonka winced.

"Terence was explaining that his names are both first names, so I can call him Terence, and it's okay."

Willy's voice was soft, and calm, and silky now. "Do you mean to say, Terence, that you were talking about names? On the hill? While I was waiting? In No Man's Land? With people? Lurking? On the side street?"

Terence nodded.

Willy considered. "Then Charlie. You should be calling Terence 'James'."

Charlie coughed. "We talked about that, too. My Mum didn't say anything during dinner, so 'Terence' is okay."

"Your Mum." Willy had said the word.

Charlie tried for a compromise. "I'm sure she'd let me call you 'Wonka'."

Willy's eyes went glassy as he thought about that. 'Mr. Wonka' was only one letter different from 'Dr. Wonka', but it was nine degrees of separation. 'Wonka' was identical, and that would never do. It was the 'W' Willy made famous, and for Willy, if not for the rest of the world, that 'W' stood for his first name. He shook his head. This was silly, and Willy knew it, but it was a struggle to end it, until the image of a rose floated into his consciousness… by any other name, it would smell as sweet. Isn't that what Shakespeare said? Who could argue with him?

As quickly as the hostility had arisen, Willy felt it abate. "No, Charlie, Mr. Wonka is fine." He pointed to Charlie for a second with the top of his cane, to show he meant it both ways. He was too far away to touch Charlie with it. He turned to Terence. "Congratulations, my dear fellow, well done; if anything, I'm jealous." Willy walked back to the Elevator. "Goodnight, then, everyone, and everyone, give everyone my regards."

Terence felt uneasy, watching him go. Willy was too cheery, after being too upset. He wanted to check. "See you later, alligator," he called.

Willy stopped, still, not turning. But after a minute, he did turn. "In a while, crocodile," he said quietly. "…in a while."


	26. The Week

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Thank you reviewers ____**dionne dance **and **Squirrela. **Your reviews and comments continue _invaluable, and are always appreciated. A lot!

_The songs mentioned are "Owner of a Lonely Heart" by Yes, and "Fortress Around Your Heart" by Sting. _

* * *

The disbelieving expressions on the faces of the people passing the gates, as he and Charlie emerged on the sidewalk, were, for Terence, almost the high point of the visit. Someone leaving the Factory... two someones, in fact! Unprecedented! Which was absurd, of course. People left the Factory on a regular basis - in trucks, filled with candy, being shipped. The people leaving just hadn't been _inside_ the Factory, and he had! What a hoot! Terence found it so amusing, he turned back to the Factory, waving, and called out, "Thanks, Willy! See you next time!"

Looking up at him with a mixed expression of alarm and dismay, Charlie grabbed Terence's hand, checked to see the coast was clear, and crossed the street. While recognizing each of them had a playful streak the other would like, Charlie was almost sure Mr. Wonka wouldn't like the attention Terence was causing. Maybe Terence thought so, too, because with every step, Terence became quieter, until they walked in silence. Charlie hoped everything was okay. He didn't really understand the kerfuffle over who called who what, but he knew it was something, and probably not anything good.

By half-way down the hill, Terence was positively somber. Odd to think the form of address meant so much, but that wasn't the only thing bothering Terence. What did the second 'in a while' mean?

* * *

Odd to think I even _care_ what anybody calls anybody anyway, thought Willy, as he watched the hill from his bedroom window. Sleep was the idea, as tired as he was, but at the moment, Willy found himself too restless for sleep, and it _d__id_ matter. Terence got to be 'Terence', and he'd like to be 'Willy'. Willy was what his friends called him. Maybe Charlie wasn't a friend.

There wasn't enough light to see Charlie and Terence walking, but Willy didn't think they could have reached the bottom of the hill yet. He didn't like the last thought he'd had. Faulty logic, dear heart, he chided himself; you're ignoring what you know. Charlie _is _a friend; a new friend. 'Hell is - other people', Sartre said, but it was becoming plain to Willy that Hell is - not understanding other people. He never had. Who knew what made them tick, or why they did the - usually unpleasant - things they did? He drew his inevitable conclusion: People were exhausting, and best avoided.

Willy saw a speck of light, for just a second, at the bottom of the hill. Charlie, arriving home, safely. Thank you, Terence. Willy's pale fingers touched the glass of the window as he imagined Charlie's welcome. A cheery chorus of 'hello's, followed up with hugs and kisses from loving... a chill ran through him, followed by a delicate shudder, ...and grandparens, in that oh, so warmly, freezing house. His hand dropped to his side, defeated. Charlie already lived in a fantasy land. Willy moved to the armchair near the window, and having already removed most of his clothes, he sank into it, and fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Four hours later, Willy's dreams of avoiding people woke him up. Feeling like a block of concrete, he stretched, loosening his muscles, and thought about moving this endeavor to the bed, where it belonged. Instead, he moved to one of his myriad closets, and re-buttoning his shirt and vest, he selected the darkest purple frock coat he could find, and donned the matching gloves, stored carefully in the left sleeve.

Descending the second of his suite's spiral staircases, Willy emerged from the discreet door behind the drafting table, and into his office. Retrieving his carelessly thrown top hat and cane from the leather armchair nearest him, he took off for the depths of the Factory, where he walked, for hours, and thought about avoiding people. That was so easy; and so painless; by now, it was second nature. He passed an Oompa-Loompa, and nodded to him, a fellow traveller on his own midnight stroll, soon out of sight. No need to avoid the Oompa-Loompas; they were great! He understood them, and they understood him.

He walked on, climbing the levels of the Factory, and thought about including people. The steps he'd taken over the past few months were _all _about doing just that; and he'd found people he wanted to include; an old friend, and a new friend. That made him smile, as he stopped to admire one of the pasture vistas. Terence and Charlie - wonderful people, really; anyway, they might be. He sighed, tired of the doubt that always intruded when he wanted to believe something good about someone. Willy walked on, his mind circling back to the request Charlie's mater wouldn't let Charlie honor - what to call him. To Willy, it was a simple request; if they couldn't even do that, was it even worth continuing with this? Time to decide.

Willy had long ago divorced himself from unpleasant feelings, but lyrics from songs had a habit of floating into his consciousness, keeping him informed. Just now it was "..._owner of a lonely heart, much better than - a, owner of a broken heart_...". Yes, that was Yes, and it might be how he felt, but it seemed timid to him, and status quo, and it wouldn't serve for an answer.

Willy kept walking, and his thoughts kept circling, the decision unmade, even as dawn began to paint the sky. Soon, the majority of the Factory was waking up. Oompa-Loompas passed on the way to their work, or their sleep, and Willy nodded as they went by; but he stopped for no one, and had nothing to say. The Oompa-Loompas took it in stride. They knew him; he had his moods, and they understood.

Watching them, Willy began to hum, and noticing what he was humming, he soon was smiling at his subconscious, daring to liken his Factory to a fortress! Tsk, tsk! Willy was sure his subconscious could only mean it in the very best sense of the word, and a spring entered his step, as he headed again to his office. Sting had replaced Yes, with not a perfect analogy, but a useful one: "..._let me build a bridge_..." Yeah, a bridge, of understanding. He and the Buckets could use a little more of that. He had his minefields, but how could they possibly know about them?

Yeah, yeah, a bridge, but it would take time, and even he had only so much energy. The last few days' activity, with its unusual features, had worn him out. Getting this done called for a judicious retreat. Sitting at his desk, Willy decided to continue first with the other Buckets. Charlie would need more thought. Mrs. Bucket had brought food storage logistics to his attention, but that had only made him aware of how much more help they really needed. Taking a sheet of paper from his desk, he began to write.

* * *

On Sunday, it warmed up enough to rain. It rained steadily, all day long. Terence slept late. No sounds of jets disturbed his dreams, and no Square-Candies-that-look-Round greeted him when he opened his eyes. He spent the day quietly in his shop. Mr. Bucket spent the day worrying about what the rain was doing to the snow. It was melting it. Without the snow, there would be no money for shoveling, and the family needed the money. Charlie spent the day fretting, and restless. His Mum wouldn't let him leave the house, and with the tarp spread across the hole in the roof, the Factory looked like the kind of unfocused image you find in a dream. What if that's all it was? A dream he'd woken from? Charlie shook off the thought, and finally settled down to his homework. No one in the house was hungry, so he knew it was all real. Willy Wonka spent the day, and half the night, in a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

On Monday morning, Charlie beat feet up to the Factory, and pushed on the gate. It didn't move. His face fell, and removing his hand, he noticed a small sticker on the cross-piece. It said, 'Please Do Not Disturb ...for a while'. Disappointed, Charlie thought he understood, as he made his way to school. It probably wasn't easy for a recluse to un-recluse over one weekend.

Late Monday morning, the local appliance store surprised Mrs. Bucket by delivering a small freezer. Before she could object, they told her the freezer would be thrown away if she refused it. She accepted it, thinking quiet, shy, oddly dressed Willy Wonka was turning out to be a force.

On Monday afternoon, after school, Charlie found Terence sitting on a bench across from the Factory, ostensibly feeding the birds.

"Heard anything?" Terence asked, as Charlie joined him.

Charlie pointed to the left hand gate. "There's a sticker on the gate."

Terence got up, crossed the road, and read it. Crossing back, he sat down again, and resumed feeding the birds.

Charlie watched the birds, jostling each other in the contest for breadcrumbs for a few minutes, before asking, "How long is 'a while'?"

Terence considered the question. "He said he was closing his factory 'forever'. How long was it closed?"

Charlie frowned, remembering what Grandpa Joe had told him. "Two years, I think."

"Okay, so 'forever' is two years. 'A while' must be less than two years." Terence knew that wasn't very helpful, and Charlie's scowl confirmed it. "I wish I had a better answer, Charlie, but I really don't know. I hope it's not long."

Charlie gathered up his books. "Me, too," he said, and he set off for home.

* * *

Bright Tuesday morning, Charlie checked the gate, found the sticker in place, and continued on to school.

Late Tuesday morning, Mrs. Bucket wasn't surprised by a knock on the door. In the note Charlie had given her Saturday night, Mr. Wonka had outlined a scheme that involved her providing meals plans for the upcoming week to a representative from L'usine, who would deliver groceries on a three-day basis until the storage issues could be ironed out. He hoped that met with her approval, the representative would be by Tuesday morning to pick up the menus. Mrs. Bucket had to admit, it was a sensible, workable plan, and when she opened the door, she recognized the strawberry blonde twenty-something woman who catered the dinner. "Hello," she said, amiably. "Please come in. I know you introduced yourself the other night, but I'm sorry to say I don't remember your name, and Mr. Wonka didn't include it in his note."

The woman laughed, as she made her way into the small house, a small wave acknowledging the grandparents. They seemed to be asleep. "Probably because he didn't know which of us would come." she whispered, with a slight French accent. "My name is Martha Lee, but please call me Martha. I agree with Willy's policy; if you and I are going to work together, I'd like to be on a first name basis." Before she could ask if that was alright, Mrs. Bucket interrupted.

"So you know Mr. Wonka?"

"Willy? Not really; he's an old friend of the family, particularly of my grandfather. I met him when my fiancé and I opened L'usine, in January." Martha thought about taking off her coat, but decided to leave it on. "Willy sends over notes with recipes and techniques we might use - savories only, 'natch," she said conspiratorially, with a wink, "and supplies us with the food we prepare. He pops in every ten days or so, to check on our work, and teach us."

Impressed, Mrs. Bucket asked, "Mr. Wonka eats at your restaurant?"

Martha couldn't help laughing. "Good gracious, no! But he _did _want to practice being around people before the tour, so on two occasions, in January, he played chef for the night at the restaurant."

Mrs. Bucket's eyebrows crawled up her forehead, a dubious look on her face.

Martha guessed what she was thinking. "Oh, no, it went very well. The more pressure he's under, the less nervous he gets." Martha nodded enthusiastically. "I think he had fun. We sure did! We were buried in compliments on those nights. Candy is his specialty, but the man can cook anything! Willy's lucky no one goes to the kitchen to compliment the chef anymore."

"But how can you can him 'Willy' if you barely know him? Shouldn't you be calling him 'Mr. Wonka', out of respect?"

Martha was momentarily at a loss for words. What Mrs. Bucket said was right, but it was wrong. The reason popped into her head. "He asked us to call him 'Willy', and out of respect for his wishes, we do." Martha nodded to herself, confident she was right. There was a short, nervous pause that Martha filled by asking, "What shall I call you?"

Mrs. Bucket was mulling over what Martha had said. Biting her lip, and without thinking, she answered, "Late for the party." Hearing herself, she quickly looked up, and found Martha looking at her with an impish expression. Putting her hand on Martha's arm, she quickly added, "I'm kidding, please call me 'Nora', but I can't help but feel I'm being out maneuvered, and I don't know if I like it."

Martha looked perplexed for a minute. "By Willy?" Then her brow cleared, and she shook her head. "Wow! That's wild! I never thought I'd meet anyone more untrusting than he is, but I think I just have. Huh. Do you have the menus?"

Mrs. Bucket smiled distractedly, as she handed Martha the menus. Martha had said a first name basis was Mr. Wonka's policy with the people he worked with. It was her first inkling Mr. Wonka might have more in mind for the family than just a tour. Was it the prize? Was there more? If so, what? Moving to the table with Martha, they fell into conversation.

* * *

On Tuesday afternoon, after school, Charlie found Terence sitting on the same bench, doing the same thing.

"Sticker still there?" asked Terence.

Charlie sat down and nodded. "It was this morning." He lapsed into silence. "Terence, do you think the phone on Mr. Wonka's desk works?" Charlie had thought the upright, old-fashioned, candlestick telephone exactly the kind Mr. Wonka would have.

"I suppose it does," answered Terence, "but I couldn't tell you the number, if I had a month of Sundays to do it."

Charlie sighed. "Me either." After another silence, Charlie got up.

"Charlie," asked Terence, "did I ever tell you the first conversation Willy and I ever had?"

Charlie eagerly dropped back down on the bench. "No."

"It was about names." Terence shrugged, and got up. "Come on over to the shop. You can do your homework where it's warm, and I'll tell you all about it."

* * *

On Tuesday evening, there was a knock on the Bucket's door. It was an executive, from the Smilex factory, hat in hand. The toothpaste factory, he told them, was in need of someone to repair its machines. In their search for such a person, Mr. Bucket's name had come highly recommended. The company, he explained, hadn't been aware of Mr. Bucket's talents as a mechanic; if they had known, the executive assured them, they would _never _have let Mr. Bucket go. If it was convenient, and in deference to Mr. Bucket's many years with the company, they would like him to start as soon as possible - tomorrow morning if he wished - at triple his former pay.

Mr. Bucket thanked the executive for his gracious offer, and ushering him out of the house, told the man they would have his answer in the morning. Once back inside, he surveyed the sea of faces, all glued on him. "I'll be going to work tomorrow," he said. "Charlie, I had a nice talk with Willy, in the Great Glass Elevator, about machines the other day, and I'm sure that conversation had nothing to do with this." Sitting back down at the table, Noah picked up the book he was reading, and assiduously resumed where he had left off. The others, following his lead, resumed their pursuits without comment, but no one in the house believed, for even a nanosecond, that the last ten words Mr. Bucket had spoken were true.

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Mr. Bucket went straight to work, and Charlie, avoiding the disappointment seeing the sticker would bring, went straight to school. Martha arrived at the house in the late morning, with supplies for the next three days, and twelve each of every chocolate bar Willy made. These she gave to Grandpa George, with Willy Wonka's compliments, and the hope that he would share. "I might," Grandpa George had mumbled, but he was already handing them around. Mrs. Bucket took the extras, and put them on a shelf. Helping Martha unpack the rest, the two fell back into the conversation they'd started yesterday.

* * *

Wednesday afternoon found Terence and Charlie on the same bench, staring at the Factory, feeding possibly, the same birds.

"I'd have never guessed that big chimney was a way for the Great Glass Elevator to get in and out," said Charlie.

"Me neither," agreed Terence. "That inner sleeve idea for the Elevator to travel is a good one. I wouldn't have guessed it was a cooling tower, either, but I guess that makes sense. Who wants to navigate through a lot of smoke to get to the track, when steam is so much nicer?"

"Yeah, smoke is bad for you." Charlie got up and crossed the street. "Thank you, Mr. Wonka!" he called out.

Terence had stood up, and when Charlie got back, Terence gave him a quizzical look. They started down the hill together.

"Mr. Wonka got my Dad a better job at the toothpaste factory," Charlie explained. "He's fixing the machines now, for lots more money."

Terence raised his eyebrows. If true, Willy was making it possible for the Buckets to move further and further away. "You think it was Willy?"

Charlie nodded earnestly. "My Dad does. I know because he said it wasn't. He doesn't want my Mum to worry about pity."

"What do you think?"

"I think my Dad's a great mechanic, and he should have the job. Mr. Wonka did that company a favor, if he recommended him, and I'm glad."

Charlie didn't sound glad, he sounded angry, but Terence was pretty sure it was at Smilex. "Come on Charlie. Let's do some homework at the shop, and I'll tell you more stories about Willy the younger."

* * *

On Thursday, Charlie sat down and said, "Maybe 'a while' is longer than 'forever'.

Terence frowned.

Putting his elbows on his knees, and resting his head in his hands, Charlie stared up at the Factory. "It's no use pretending," he said, forlornly. "Mr. Wonka's gone again. The last time he did that, it lasted over ten years."

Terence was worried, too, but that was something he'd rather not let on. Forcing a smile, reminding himself of Willy as he did it, he said, "This is different. This time, Willy's doing things behind the scenes."

Charlie sighed, because sometimes Terence could be very dense. "That's the way he always does things when he disappears. We just didn't know what the things were, and now we know some of them." Charlie couldn't sit still anymore. "Let's go."


	27. The Weekend

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_It's written many times, but means no less for the repetition - Thank you readers, and especially thank you to all who have taken the time to review. ____**dionne dance, **your comments and suggestions continue to be an inspiration. Enjoy!_  


* * *

Hurrying down the street in a power walk, Charlie's eyes were intent on the curb. Terence trailed along behind him, becoming gloomier by the minute over Charlie's prognosis that 'a while' was longer than 'forever'. Charlie was only a little boy, but he was very intuitive.

Pulling up without a warning, Charlie pointed. "There! It was right there!"

"What?" Terence had caught up.

"The money! This is where I found the money." Charlie was exasperated; by Mr. Wonka's absence all week, and Terence's slow uptake today. "It was Thursday," mused Charlie, remembering. "Quick! Today is Thursday!" Charlie took off at a run, giving Terence no choice but to follow.

The sprint ended on the steps of the shop, Charlie already trying the door.

The sign said closed, with the door locked, but, by now, Terence had caught on to Charlie's thought. Charlie had met Willy on Thursday, at the shop — why not pick that day and place as a good time to re-surface? Terence liked the idea. It was just the sort of thing Willy would do. The locked door did nothing to dampen the hope he now shared with Charlie. Willy had already demonstrated a proclivity for defeating locks, with the lock on the door to the roof of his, Terence's, flat, an excellent example. Unlocking this lock, Terence and Charlie burst into the shop, turning on the lights, holding their collective breath, fully expecting to hear 'Surprise!' from a flute-like voice.

It didn't happen. After hunting around the shop with their eyes, Terence and Charlie ended by looking at each other. Before either could say a thing, the bells above the shop door jingled merrily. As one, they turned to the person coming through the door, their faces wreathed in smiles. It was a costumer, a bit taken aback, by the effusive welcoming looks from these two strangers.

"Is this a bad time?" the stout, middle-aged woman asked, tentatively.

"Service with a smile," Terence glibly replied, making an effort to recover. "How can I help?" he added, more sincerely.

The woman picked up a newspaper, and paying for it, she impulsively added a Wonka bar, from the display next to the till, to her purchase. "I love these things," she said, selecting a Fudgemallow Delight.

"Me, too," said Terence, handing over her change.

"The man that makes them is better," muttered Charlie, under his breath.

"Excuse me," the woman said, turning to Charlie. "I didn't catch that."

Charlie swallowed while he thought of something else he might have just said. "I said, me three."

Unconvinced, the woman deigned to grace them with a tepid smile as she left, glad to leave the shop, and these two odd people, with their muttered mysteries, behind her.

* * *

On Friday, Terence decided to leave town. He didn't know, when he woke up, that was what he was planning, but that was what he was planning. It started as a restless feeling he had, that he thought he could tamp down, by taking a walk. For the umpteenth time that week, Terence turned the Open/Closed sign on the door to 'Closed', during normal business hours. He cared not one jot nor tittle, as he strode away, that at this rate, he would have no customers at all. That attitude, had Terence been paying attention, was his first clue.

His next clue, also ignored, was all the veering away he was doing. Terence started by heading uphill to the Factory, but getting closer, he veered off, and headed downhill. Realizing that was taking him to the Bucket house, Terence veered off that course, as well. His track steadied as he headed across town, destination unknown, oblivious, as he walked, of his surroundings. Thoughts crowded his head. Was he to blame for Willy's retreat? He'd spent all that time on the hill convincing Charlie to call him 'Terence' again. Should he have convinced Charlie to call Willy 'Willy', instead? Terence shook his head. He'd done it because, there was something about Willy, that made you want to get the better of him sometimes. Was that so bad? Willy always seemed so capable. But Charlie was convinced Willy was gone again. Was he?

Terence felt the wind hit him full-on suddenly, like a slap. He looked up to investigate the reason, only to put a wry smile on his face, as he stopped. He was standing in front of the lot that had once held the Wonka house, and the wind was sweeping through it, made stronger by the venturi effect caused by the buildings on either side. Terence hadn't been here since that Saturday, months ago, when he had first returned to town. The lot hadn't changed; it was still empty. _Like the future here_, Terence realized, the thought searing across his brain, flashing brightly, like the tail of a meteor, on a moonless night.

It was the last clue, and Terence didn't ignore it. Pushing his hands, now fists, deeper into the pockets of his coat, Terence strode away, knowing exactly where he was going next. So intent was Terence on his new goal, he didn't hear the voice, caught by the wind, of the elderly man he had spoken to on that Saturday afternoon, calling after him, from the steps of his house.

"Mr. James!"

* * *

On Friday afternoon, after school, Charlie found the bench by the Factory vacant. The few birds that strutted about peered at him accusingly as he sat down; they could see he had nothing to offer them. "Sorry, birds," he said. "I thought Terence would be here to feed you." Un-mollified, the birds flew off.

Charlie headed down to the shop, only to find it closed, with Terence conspicuously absent. There was a lonely feeling hanging about the shop, that was new, and that Charlie didn't like. He thought about going home, but returned to the bench, instead. Terence had become an ally over the past few days, someone to share the burden of Charlie's concerns, and Charlie would miss him, if he had left, too. For the second time, Charlie thought about going home, until he closed his eyes, and took in a breath, that took in the scents, coming from the Factory.

* * *

Charlie was still there, an hour later; cold, but happy. He watched with satisfaction, as Terence walked slowly up the hill, from the direction of the train station. "You're late, Mr. James," he said, when Terence took a seat next to him. "What would Willy say?"

Terence chuckled. Willy could sure pick 'em. "Yeah, what would Mr. Willy Wonka say, Mr. Charlie Bucket?" he replied, deciding to cover all bases.

Charlie nudged Terence with his elbow. "And the birds… what would the birds say?"

"Coo?" Terence answered. "Maybe, 'coo, coo'?"

Charlie doubled over, laughing. "You mean 'cuckoo', like us?"

Terence had to smile. Willy would have said exactly the same thing. "Why are you so happy, Charlie Bucket?"

Charlie answered seriously, changing the subject. "You were gonna leave for good, weren't you?"

"I was." Terence had only thought about denying it for a second. Lying to Charlie seemed pointless; Terence was sure Charlie would see right through him, and think less of him, something Terence instinctively knew he didn't want. Without judging, Charlie nodded at the confirmation, but Charlie's look told Terence an explanation was necessary. Terence shrugged. "I've spent my life finding things, and then leaving, to go find other things. I guess leaving is a habit."

"But you're back."

"I am." Terence sighed. "I've found enough things for this lifetime, but that's beside the point. Willy didn't need finding, and I didn't find him — he wasn't, he isn't, lost — he found me, the same day he found you." Terence shifted to a more comfortable position on the bench. "Did you know, Charlie, that the day Willy came to the shop, was exactly one day more than the amount of time I lived in this town, when we were boys?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie shake his head. Nodding his head slightly, to underline the fact, Terence continued. "I didn't notice that myself, until this afternoon, counting telephone poles going by, on the train. The counting made me think of it. Willy probably thought, if he visited any sooner, I'd leave again, just like last time."

"But you couldn't help that, your mother made you move," said Charlie, softly.

"But that doesn't help with what you feel, does it," Terence replied, equally softly. "What you said is something your brain knows; a fact. Facts mean next to nothing, to your heart." Terence hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, and making a steeple of his hands, he rested his face in it, thumbs on chin, index fingers on brow. He thought about it all again, as he had, all afternoon. Nothing changed. Dropping his hands to his knees, he looked into the distance. "Willy thought of a way, in this case, to erase what he didn't like about the past, and how it felt. He waited for the time to run out, and when it did, he started a new clock."

Terence straightened up, sitting tall on the bench. "So. That empty lot, that timing — I thought I'd better come back, and wait, because Willy is _so_ _sure_ I won't, and I'd like to get the better of him, in a way that won't hurt, and helps us all."

The explanation ended, but its somber quality hung in the air around them, like a fog. It made the mood heavy, and after a few minutes spent letting it sink in, Terence nudged a frowning Charlie with his elbow, to lighten it. "Since when are you calling him 'Willy'?"

Charlie grinned. The question was easy, and the fog dispersed. "Since I decided to decide for myself. Mum will have to get used to it."

Terence grinned back, until he realized Charlie had answered one, but not the other question. "Well, Mr. Bucket, as much as I'd like to believe it's my company that's made you so happy, I'm almost sure it's not. So, give, what is it?"

Charlie laughed, because Terence was being dense again, but maybe on purpose. The answer to that question was as plain as the nose on anyone's face; anyway, their nose was all anyone needed, to know everything would be fine. "Terence," Charlie said, when he stopped laughing, "close your eyes, and take a deep breath."

Terence did.

"Have you ever smelled anything more wonderful in your whole life? I mean in the whole, big, wide, world? Ever?" Charlie nodded happily to see Terence shake his head 'no'. "Neither have I, and I'm a Factory smell expert." Charlie folded his arms across his chest. "You just got here, so I don't expect you to know. But these smells tell you whatever's going on is good, and if it's good, 'a while' is _not _gonna be longer than 'forever'."

Terence agreed with Charlie — that was plenty enough reason for happiness.

* * *

On Saturday morning, Martha swung 'round to the Bucket house, with provisions for the next three days, and eight, six-inch square, silver-colored boxes, with the Wonka trademark 'W' emblazoned across one side, in a deep burgundy color, edged with gold leaf. On the edge of each lid, opposite the 'W', also in burgundy, but in small, italicized letters, was the name of the intended recipient.

Martha handed them around, leaving one lonely looking box, all by itself, on the table. Finishing, she said, addressing them all, "I've been told to say, and I quote, "On pain of death, nothing in these boxes leaves this house, unless it's chewed up, swallowed up, and in your stomach." End quote. Except that one." Martha said, pointing. "That one, is for Terence, and the same applies to him, except substitute 'shop' and/or 'flat' for 'house'. Can someone here take it to him? I'm pressed for time today, lots going on at the restaurant and all that, or I'd do it myself."

Catching Mrs. Bucket's meaningful stare and raised eyebrow, Martha shook her head, raising her hands in a small pushing gesture. "No, no, nothing like that, it's just us chickens tonight, nothing exciting or anything. He called Gramps and canceled everything on the calendar for February, last Monday." Martha caught Charlie's eye, even as she knew Mrs. Bucket had some burning questions she wanted answered about now. "Somebody get that to Terence, yeah?" She grinned, as Charlie nodded. "Gotta run! Bye!" Her words were an echo, as Martha herself, was already out the door.

Grandpa Joe hadn't wasted any time opening his box, with the others quickly following his example. "Oh, look," he breathed, lifting a beautiful bouquet of candy flowers out of the box. "I don't believe it! These are the candy flowers I was eating in the Chocolate Room, and some others I've never seen. Mr. Wonka doesn't sell these."

"They don't leave his Factory," said Charlie, the only one not to open his box.

"Hence the 'on pain of death'," nodded his father.

"I'll bet he means that," snorted Grandpa George.

"Dad!" admonished Mrs. Bucket, with a quick look toward Charlie.

"Calm yourself, daughter, Mr. Wonka's safe from us, we don't get out of bed," shot back an indignant Grandpa George.

"Something he probably considered," muttered Grandma Josephine.

Grandma Georgina had worked her box open during this exchange, and was examining her bouquet. It included a tiny bunch of purple grapes, and her sing-song comment, "I love grapes!" effectively ended the developing verbal skirmish.

The bouquets had a purple and white color scheme based largely on the spring flowers of the up-coming season. Periwinkle, Lavender, and Columbine, mixed with Lily of the Valley, and Snowdrops, with greens provided by Sweet Basil leaves, and velvety textured Lamb's Ear, were all held together with delicate candy ribbons. Everything was edible.

Grandpa Joe pointed out that his bouquet did not include grapes, and that's when everyone discovered each bouquet was slightly different. Grandpa Joe's included a miniature Hydrangea, Josephine's a Magnolia, Georgina's grapes and Sorrel leaves, Grandpa George's included miniature Ocotillo stalks, a type of cactus. Mr. Bucket found a sprig of candy Bamboo in his, and Mrs. Bucket discovered purple Aster, delicate yellow Cowslips, and a purple Hyacinth.

Charlie had opened his box, and having taken out the bouquet, he set it aside, as he noticed something else amidst the purple tissue paper padding.

Picking up Charlie's bouquet, Mrs. Bucket noted added Freesia and White Heather. "Charlie," she asked, "what else is in the box?"

Charlie was holding up a big lump of sugar. "Oh, wow!" he crowed. "Amazing! It's a Square-Candy-that-Looks-Round."

"A what what that does what?" Grandpa George was reaching for it. "It looks like a piece of sugar. Hand it over, it's a goner… I'll pop it into this cup of coffee."

"No!" Charlie adamantly replied, snatching the candy back protectively. "You don't eat it, you try to sneak up on it."

Charlie showed them all the candy, and to oohs and ahs, he explained the game. Mrs. Bucket, to her surprise, was completely mesmerized by the idea. It was fascinating, and diabolical, at the same time. For the life of her, she couldn't sneak up on the thing, without the little eyes turning her way. "Can Mr. Wonka sneak up on them?"

"No."

Mrs. Bucket held the thing in her hand. "But he makes them. He could make one that was 'hard of hearing', let's say, and then he could sneak up on it, and win. Why doesn't he do that?"

Charlie had no idea what his mother was talking about, because what she was proposing completely missed the point. Missing the point was not like her. "Doing it like that, anybody could win, without any skill at all," Charlie scoffed. "What fun would that be? That's not playing the game."

Mrs. Bucket, flabbergasted, agreed with everything her son had said. She just couldn't believe Willy Wonka agreed, as well. If he did, she, and the newspaper accounts she'd read, had him figured all wrong. "Charlie," she said determinedly, grabbing the remaining box off the table, "Let's take this to Terence, right this minute." Looking at the rest of the crowd, she put the 'little eyes' on a high shelf. "Nothing better happen to this while we're away. Right?"

A chorus of 'rights' accompanied their departure.


	28. The Candy Flowers

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Can't write it any better than I wrote it last time, so I'll write it again - Thank you readers, and a big thank you to all who have taken the time to review. __**dionne dance, **your comments and suggestions continue inspiring, if I would say so, and, oh yes I would! Enjoy!_

* * *

The emotion sparked by the flowers, and the genuineness of the Square Candy game, had sent Mrs. Bucket scurrying out of her house to seek answers, but as they turned toward Terence's shop, she wondered what had possessed her. Willy Wonka, and the way her family treated him, was beyond understanding. If you thought about it, and Mrs. Bucket thought about it constantly now, Willy Wonka was nothing but bad news for the Bucket family, and had been, ever since their paths had crossed, decades ago, starting with Noah's father. After working for the ingrate faithfully… for years… Joe, when the factory closed, found himself fired along with everyone else. Her lips became a hard-line as Mrs. Bucket remembered. That domino, the first in a long chain of misfortunes suffered by the Bucket family, had been pushed over by none other than Mr. Willy Wonka, himself. The maddening mystery was, Joe didn't blame the screwball in the least; quite the contrary — Joe thought there was something _he_ should have done to stop the spies!

As they made the turn on to Terence's street, Charlie gave the Factory a little wave. Ridiculous! Mrs. Bucket pulled on Charlie's arm to hurry him along, repenting her harshness a moment later, blaming it on Willy Wonka. The man was pure frustration. As if ruining their lives years ago wasn't enough, now he was back, ruining Charlie's life. After giving Charlie three wonderfully exciting days, the man had disappeared into that rat-hole of a factory again, making her son as miserable now, as he'd been happy earlier.

Willy Wonka was a flake.

* * *

They had reached the shop, and Mrs. Bucket, the apex of her anger, because her thinking on the walk up had worked _that_ up into a fine froth, a lot, if she only knew, like the chocolate at the base of Mr. Wonka's chocolate fall. The first words out of her mouth were a demand.

"How do you explain this?"

Terence, feeling better than he had all week, looked up from the newspaper he was perusing on the counter. Mrs. Bucket and Charlie stood in the door, Mrs. Bucket holding a fancy looking silver-colored box in the crook of her left arm, her other arm clasping Charlie's shoulders, as she ushered him inside. Recovering from the surprise of seeing Mrs. Bucket anywhere other than her house, Terence responded to her clipped tone laconically. "Can't. Don't know what 'this' is."

Mrs. Bucket crossed to the counter, where she deposited the box. "This," she said, through clenched teeth.

Terence slowly picked up the box, surreptitiously glancing at Charlie, who unobtrusively raised his shoulders. His mother was in a state of agitation that was as uncharacteristic as it was unexplainable. Terence returned his attention to the box.

"Mr. Wonka sent these over to our house this morning," Charlie explained hesitantly, when it looked like his Mum was just going to glare. "This one is for you, so Mum and I brought it."

Terence smiled at the name Charlie used in front of his mother. Intentions and reality — the one falters at the meeting of the other, all too often. Understandable, though; Mrs. Bucket seemed riled up enough, and anyway, Willy wasn't here to hear it. I wonder what Charlie would call him if he was?

Terence opened the box. Liberated, the candy's scent filled and sweetened the shop. Terence took a whiff. "This smells just like the Factory, yesterday," he observed. "So that's what that was. Willy must have made a ton of these." Charlie nodded in agreement. "I wonder what he's doing with the rest of them?" Terence mused. "I've never seen anything like this for sale."

"Grandpa Joe says they're not for sale," Mrs. Bucket offered, less agitated now, "and Martha says on pain of death they're not to leave the premises, except in your stomach."

"Martha?"

"You met her after Charlie's tour. She catered the dinner, and is acting as liaison for the time being."

Terence nodded warily at the edge still in Mrs. Bucket's tone. "Liaison? Hmm. Not her words, though, just now, right?"

"No, I'm paraphrasing Mr. Wonka."

Terence removed the bouquet from the box. "Wow," he said, adding a low whistle.

"May I?" asked Mrs. Bucket. The mundane conversation about extraordinary creations no one else was privileged to see, helped her recognize that her intense anger was out of line; as out of line, in fact, as willfully ignoring every one of the mitigating circumstances involved in Mr. Wonka's past actions, and every one of Mr. Wonka's recent acts of generosity. Mrs. Bucket would know a lot more about what was really bothering her, if she knew why she'd done that. It wasn't like her.

Terence handed her the bouquet, and Charlie reached for the box. Peering into it expectantly, he handed the box back to Terence. "Don't forget this," Charlie said.

Terence pulled out the Square-Candy-That-Looks-Round, buried in the tissue paper, and laughed to see it.

"You know what it is?" Charlie asked, surprised. Terence hadn't been on the tour to see them.

"Sure," said Terence, holding it up. "This is the thing that looks at you. Willy brought one over last Saturday morning. Scared the cr... ah, scared me, actually, wasn't expecting it, sent it flying. Willy caught it, and ate it. Said it was yummy."

"Ate it?" Charlie's voice had gone up an octave, appalled.

Terence noticing, grew serious. "He said he hated to eat them, but with a crack in it from the impact, he had no choice. He was putting it out of its misery."

"Please tell me it's not alive." Mrs. Bucket looked pale.

"Of course not, that was just a figure of speech," Terence hastened to assure her. "Here." He brought one of the stools around to the front of the counter. "Sit down."

Mrs. Bucket gladly complied. Before she could say the rest of what was on her mind, Charlie interrupted.

"Mr. Wonka came here Saturday morning?" asked Charlie. "Why?" This might be the reason he'd had to wait until four PM, and he'd like to know.

"He had something he wanted me to see in France."

So that's why Terence hadn't been around last Saturday. The news astounded Charlie, but Mrs. Bucket found her annoyance rekindled. France and back in half a day? More razzle-dazzle to impress everyone, and keep them from seeing how unreliable Willy Wonka was. Insufferable!

"To see what? You went to France? And back? In one morning?" Charlie's questions were tripping over each other.

Terence smirked happily. "Chartres Cathedral. Yeah, and back, but it took some of the afternoon, too. That Great Glass Elevator gets great gas mileage," he said, laughing.

Charlie joined in.

"You two stop that, this instant!" cried Mrs. Bucket. "This is serious." Hold it - did Terence just say Willy Wonka took him to see a cathedral? She shook her head. It didn't matter. "I don't care what happened last Saturday. I want to know why this 'little eyes' thing isn't rigged. Everything else is! These flowers are!" Though exasperated, she put the bouquet on the counter gently. It was as lovely as the others; the different flower in this one was Queen Anne's Lace.

Terence looked dubious. "Rigged? The flowers?" He poked at the bouquet. It seemed harmless enough.

"Yes, rigged." Mrs. Bucket insisted, becoming cross. "You heard me. Willy Wonka rigs everything. Those poor children on the other tour! They never had a chance."

Charlie looked stricken, not wanting to believe his ears. His mother had gone off the deep end. Those kids were brats who didn't listen. The whole family said so when they saw the winners on the television, and read about them in the papers. His Dad had said so again when they agreed he could go on his private tour. Mum had agreed. The Factory was wonderful, Charlie had told them so, and Willy had been nothing but nice since then. Well, maybe this disappearing wasn't so nice, but Charlie wasn't worried about that anymore. He was sure Willy had his reasons, maybe even good ones. Had Mum changed her mind? Why? Charlie looked desperately to Terence for salvation. This was awful!

Terence caught Charlie's look, and backed off from the angry response that was his first reaction. That wouldn't help Charlie. It would only entrench Mrs. Bucket's strange new position. A better idea would be to find out what was behind it. "I'm afraid I'm not following you, Mrs. Bucket," he said, deciding formality might draw her back from whatever emotion was driving this. "I think the only way the Factory is rigged, is to make chocolate, and candy, and support the staff." Terence frowned. "Seriously, you don't believe Willy put in the chocolate river just so Augustus Gloop could fall in it, do you?"

"Well of course I don't, and I'm sure he didn't," Mrs. Bucket snapped. "But look at everything else he does," and she launched into a tirade that catalogued all the things Willy Wonka did wrong. After she got past the superficial things, like the way his hair was cut, and the clothes he wore, she moved on to more serious communication and responsibility issues. As far as Mrs. Bucket could see, Mr. Wonka was responsible only to himself. He came and went as he pleased, he did what he wanted, when he wanted, and he was unpredictable. You never really knew what he was up to, but you always knew it was something. She went on and on, but the gist of it was, around Willy Wonka, anything could happen, and usually did.

Terence listened to all of it, and when she had exhausted herself with the litany of problems, and lapsed into silence, he matched her silence, as he thought it all over. A lot of people, himself included, would characterize the qualities she objected to as heaven. But she didn't. Why? Mrs. Bucket looked like she might start-up again, but Terence held up his hand to keep the quiet. Charlie chose that moment to let out the breath he'd been holding. Charlie. A smile lifted the corners of Terence's mouth. He had it. "Mrs. Bucket," he said, "you are entirely right."

Mrs. Bucket had expected resistance from Mr. Wonka's friend; strong resistance. With the unexpected agreement, the emotional wall she'd been backed up against, crumbled to nothing, leaving her scrambling to keep her emotional footing. The result was that she found herself listening to Terence with an open mind. His words might offer new support.

"Let's forget about the superficial things, shall we? They're a matter of taste, and, after all, everyone's taste is different. As for the other things, I don't deny Willy is guilty of everything you've said, but your conclusion is all wrong. You think those things make Willy a bad person, but they just make him a bad parent." Terence leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "Willy would be the first to agree with you. He's not a parent, and it's the reason he had those kids bring a parent with them — so they'd have a parent to look after them. Pretty simple. As I remember, Willy even took pains to spell it out for them on the ticket, just so there'd be no misunderstandings."

Mrs. Bucket was listening.

"It never occurred to Willy those parents would check their responsibilities at the door. But they did, didn't they? Would you have let Charlie run wild, and jump into shrinking rays, or chew gum Willy told Charlie, in the first place, not to touch; in the second place, not to chew; and in the third place, to spit out?"

Mrs. Bucket shook her head.

"Of course you wouldn't. Any more than Charlie would lean over the bank of a chocolate river until he fell in it."

Charlie shook his head, both 'no' and 'yes'. No, he would never do that, and yes, Terence was right, Charlie would _never_ do that.

"And you're correct, Willy is usually up to something, but the somethings he's up to don't include supplanting parents, so if that's what's worrying you, stop worrying." Terence wondered whether he should say more, and decided to go ahead. Willy might like to play things close to the vest, but he'd need the support of Charlie's parents, and his secrecy was losing it, by making Mrs. Bucket distrustful. Besides, Willy had already tipped his hand. "If anything, you and your family are an essential part of the plan." Terence knew that might be stretching it a bit, in Willy's opinion, but it sounded good.

"So there is a plan." Mrs. Bucket felt vindicated and mollified at the same time, and the light being shed on the matter was calming. Maybe what was driving her resistance _was _a fear of being supplanted. She knew hearing Terence say Mr. Wonka didn't want that made her feel a lot better. But now, back to the plan. "What is it?" she asked.

"What it is," Terence turned toward Charlie, "is up to Charlie, and I believe, at the moment, it's on hold."

"I don't understand."

"Then I'll let Charlie explain. Charlie, when we were in Willy's office, did he ask you anything?"

Charlie thought back. "Sure. He asked if I'd like to learn to make candy recipes of my own."

Mrs. Bucket's hand flew to her lips. Her son — offered an apprenticeship by the best, whatever she thought of him, and most famous, Chocolatier in the world. "What did you tell him, dear?" she asked, as calmly as she could.

Charlie repeated the things he had told Willy. When he finished, he looked forlornly from Terence to his mother. "Did I do the wrong thing?" he asked.

Mrs. Bucket got up from the stool and hurried over to Charlie, crouching down to envelop him in a hug. "No dear, you did the right thing. You told the truth about how you felt, and that may be disappointing, but at the start is when the disappointment is as small as it will ever be. Disappointment grows over time, so it would be a lot bigger disappointment if you later decided candy-making wasn't for you." She hugged him again. "You did the right thing, in the nicest possible way." With her hands still on Charlie's shoulders, she asked, "What did Mr. Wonka say?"

"He said he shouldn't have asked, and I should forget all about it." Charlie frowned. "And then he said he was tired, and asked Terence to see that I got home safe, and then he wrote the note that I brought home, and then…"

Mrs. Bucket interrupted, a look of consternation on her face. "He wrote the note _after_ you said no?" Charlie nodded. Mrs. Bucket sighed. "Then what?"

"Then we looked at a really cool drafting table," Charlie's eyes were sparkling, "Mr. Wonka designed the Factory on it! And then we got to the entrance, and he got upset about the names…"

Mrs. Bucket interrupted again. "The names?"

"Yeah, I called Terence 'Terence' and not 'Mr. James' and Mr. Wonka wanted to know why, and we talked about it, and he said everything was fine, and nobody's seen him since."

Mrs. Bucket gave Charlie another hug and stood up. Mr. Wonka. Prefers a first name basis with people he works with. Offered Charlie an apprenticeship. Well, that explains the request to call him Willy. Mr. Wonka wasn't such a puzzle when you had more of the pieces. "Terence, does Mr. Wonka know how difficult he makes things by keeping things to himself?"

"Mrs. Bucket…"

She waved her hand. "That's enough of that, call me Nora."

"Nora, do you know how difficult life got for him when he didn't keep things to himself?" Terence meant more than just the Factory closing down. Telling his father Willy saw his future as a chocolatier had cost Willy his home, and his father.

Trust hadn't always worked out well for Willy Wonka, Nora could admit that, and what she'd just learned changed her perspective. Leaving Charlie, she went back to the counter and picked up the bouquet. "Terence, do you want to know how these are rigged?" she asked, sighing as she put it down again. "Don't answer, I'm going to tell you. The Victorians had a flower language. All the flowers meant something. These bouquets are mostly the same, but each has a special something in it. Yours has Queen Anne's Lace. It represents sanctuary; a haven."

Terence said nothing.

"For Joe, it was a white hydrangea. That means 'Thank you for understanding.' George, my Dad, got Ocotillo cactus." Nora smiled, indulging herself in a quiet chuckle. "Mr. Wonka can be funny. That's a flower pun, because cactus is prickly, and so is my dad, but the meaning of cactus is warmth. He gave my Mum Sorrel, both kinds, wild and wood. The wild means ill-timed wit, but the wood means secret sweetness, so I'm not sure if he's having a joke or not. He also gave her grapes, which means connectivity, but also a party, and she is a free spirit."

"What about you?" Terence asked.

Nora laughed a little sadly. "Well, I guess he's trying to butter me up, because he gave me purple Aster, which means elegance, and Cowslip, which means grace. But he also gave me a purple Hyacinth, which is both 'sorry', and a hope for reconciliation. I didn't realize how much I blamed him for what has become of our family, until I saw that flower, and it made me angry that someone I know so little could intuitively know me so well."

Her words hung in the air. Terence waited a minute, before breaking the ensuing silence. "And Charlie?"

Nora smiled. "Ah, yes, Charlie," she said, in a dreamy voice, all anger gone. "Come here, dear." She held out her arms, and Charlie moved into them. She gave him a tender hug and stood up, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. "He gave Charlie Freesia, which means innocence, and thoughtfulness, and white Heather, which means protection, and a promise that wishes will come true."

Hearing 'wishes will come true', Charlie wanted to smile, but the adults were quite somber, and it didn't seem like he should. But he couldn't resist, and soon a broad smile covered his face.

Seeing it, Terence couldn't resist poking fun. "Gosh, Charlie, do you think Willy meant for you, or for him?"

Charlie burst into giggles. "You're forgetting the Square-Candies-that-Look-Round," he said.

"What could they possibly mean?" asked his mother, curiously.

"That he's keeping an eye on us."

Everyone laughed, because Charlie was probably exactly right.

"It's lunch time," Terence said, looking at his watch. "I can take lunch without ruining my trade, any more than I already have. Can I walk you two home? Is that where you're going?" Noting their nods, he went on. "Good. Nora, you can tell me all about Martha on the way, and Charlie, you can decide what wish you want to come true first."

As they left, Nora turned to Terence. "You didn't mention the Salts."

Terence winked. "He denies it hotly, but I'm convinced Willy planned what happened to the Salts." He paused for effect. "In all fairness, they could have avoided it, but Willy had to struggle for everything he has, so I think arrogant people who don't lift a finger for themselves really irk him." Terence laughed to see Nora pretend shock, but they both knew being covered in garbage wasn't particularly life threatening. He offered Nora his arm, a gallant gesture to guide her along the street. "I never said Willy was a saint."


	29. The Second Sunday

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But __I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Feedback is such a wonderful thing to get, and I so appreciate the reviewers who share it with me. Thank you. __**dionne** **dance**: Poor Mrs. Bucket! Imagine being angry at Willy — but it was so much fun to write. **Squirrela**: yes, the names — and even harder for Willy to understand, as someone who doesn't pay much attention to what the culture wants in the first place. Thanks, thanks readers, and enjoy!_

* * *

On Sunday, Charlie, using the set of pastel drawing pencils his Dad brought home on Friday night, made possible by an advance on his Dad's salary given by the toothpaste factory, spent the morning drawing a detailed picture of The Chocolate Room. He finished, just before lunch, very satisfied with the result. The pastel pencils were sooo much easier to control than the crayon remnants he'd scavenged from the school's waste bins in the past, and the color selection was nothing short of awesome.

Charlie was still admiring his work, when he heard his mother ask off-handedly from below, "Has anyone seen the Square-Candy?" Peering over the side of his loft, Charlie suspected the worst when his Grandpa George tried both hurriedly, and nonchalantly, to duck under the covers.

Mrs. Bucket saw it, too. "Come out, Dad. Where is it?"

Her voice was stern, and George came out, chagrined and defiant at the same time. "Don't get yer cows a runnin', daughter," George said, folding his hands imperiously on the blanket. "I've only followed Mr. Wonka's instructions exactly. I ate the darned thing."

Mr. Bucket lowered the book he was reading, mildly amused. "I had no idea you were planning to leave the house, Pops, but I'm glad to hear it. Any idea when?" But all he received from his father-in-law was a scowl.

George's snacking incensed Grandpa Joe. "Mr. Wonka gave that to Charlie!" he cried. "George, you had no right to eat it!"

"Then those beady little eyes shouldn't 'a looked at me from everywhere! And if it gets put on the mantlepiece," George said, to no one in particular, "where I can reach it, the person putting it there oughta know it'd be a goner!" Tilting his head, his nose in the air, George folded his arms imperiously across his chest. "Daughter, you did, and it is, and that's all she wrote!"

Charlie was about to break into the conversation, but the question Grandma Josephine was asking was one to which he wanted to hear the answer. "How did it taste?"

George looked at each of them, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes twinkling with delight. "It tasted so good, it would 'a brought tears to a glass eye," he answered smugly. "If crazy ol' Mr. Wonka keeps this up, I might just begin to appreciate his kind o' crazy."

Charlie laughed, and they all looked up. "It's okay, Mum, I couldn't have eaten it anyway. Those little eyes!" Charlie returned to the study of his drawing, looking for mistakes in the details, but not finding any. "Willy will send us more if we ask."

Everyone heard the name 'Willy' except Charlie, who was too distracted—looking this time for details he could add—but no one said a word. Having sent Charlie out to play after lunch on Saturday, Nora had filled the others in on the turned-down apprenticeship development, Terence supplying details as needed.

With more of the puzzle pieces revealed to her, it seemed to Nora, that with every request Mr. Wonka fulfilled from the original list, he added something that helped put the Buckets back on their feet. It seemed to her, Nora told Terence, that when the list ended, so would Mr. Wonka's involvement with them. Terence didn't disagree that outcome was possible. Mr. Wonka had already replaced Charlie as the liaison with Martha, and Nora knew that wouldn't last either. With Noah's new salary, it was only a matter of time before they fixed up the house, or moved to a nicer one, with either solution making food storage a non-issue. Nora had no doubt at that point, the exchange would become completely impersonal. At the beginning of the week, all of this would have made her rejoice, but now, with her change of heart, Nora felt dread. Charlie would be crushed. Would Willy Wonka do that?

Terence could only shrug his shoulders, and point out that Willy Wonka's life was candy-making. If that life wasn't Charlie's, wasn't Willy doing the kindest possible thing, in the best possible way? The disappointment Charlie might feel, Terence suggested, is as small now, as it will ever be. Charlie would get over it, and have the means at hand to find what made Charlie happy, to boot. What could be kinder?

Nora bit her lip, realizing the very words she'd used earlier in the day, applied to Charlie, as well as Mr. Wonka. That had been yesterday, and Nora brought herself back to the present.

Nora missed the 'little eyes', and wished her father had left the candy alone. It was a fun game, trying to sneak up on the thing, Nora had to admit it. She'd been a fun person once; the reminding of it was nice—and having the 'little eyes' around the house, was a comfort. Mr. Wonka could have fulfilled the second request without sending them, but he'd sent them, and she liked Charlie's thought that it was Mr. Wonka's way of keeping an eye on them.

Terence thought it a good sign, too, because it was recent, and not in keeping with the week's earlier trend. Nora hoped he was right. Since her talk with Terence yesterday, she didn't see Mr. Wonka as a foe anymore, trying to replace her, and if Mr. Wonka wasn't a foe, he'd make a powerful friend.

There was only one request left, and that was Grandma Georgina's—for dragonflies. There wasn't a one of them, even Grandma Josephine, whose request it was, who believed Willy Wonka would do anything about 'healthy vegetables'. For one thing, Nora was already taking care of that, with her meal plans. With a sigh, Nora returned to preparing lunch, Noah putting his book aside to help her. She gave him a wan smile, and shook her head. Nora didn't mind making the lunch herself; she was wondering what Willy Wonka was going to do about dragonflies.

* * *

"This," said Willy Wonka, late Sunday afternoon, holding up a piece of edible stained glass, with four tiny dragonflies attached, "is not it."

'Not it' was a design of four silvery-green and brown cattails, bent over the blue waters of a still pond, with lily pads suggested near the edges. Pale shades of blue gradually darkened, as they rose in variegated layers to make the sky behind, until the uppermost layer of the blue sky above, was a perfect reflection of the blue water below. The cattails, two on either side, whimsically bent toward the water, the weight of the single dragonfly perched on the top of each one the cause, with the tops of the cattails and the dragonflies mingling in the center of the design, like two old couples, facing each other, sharing the same little cozy, comfy, corner of home. If you looked carefully, the outlines of the cattails, with their spidery leaves, and the negative space of the water beneath them, formed the shape of a heart.

With a forceful flick of his wrist, Willy sent the piece of confectionary candy art spinning end over end, toward the ceiling of the Inventing Room, high overhead.

Up and up it went, the dragonflies turning cartwheels, the colors catching the light, a show in itself, until gravity finally took over. The spinning stopped, and the piece reversed, heading for the floor in free-fall, Willy waiting contentedly to see it hit, and shatter into a thousand pieces, each piece skittering across the floor, colored bits that would catch the light in ways you couldn't guess or predict. It would be marvelous! He'd been working on the design and execution of the piece all day, and though it wasn't right, the piece deserved the spectacular finish he was giving it.

But Ahlia, the Oompa-Loompa whose small hands, after being shown the prototype, made the tiny dragonflies, darted from behind the great protective vats, held out those hands, and caught the work, the saving of it proving irresistible.

Willy turned to face her, his head cocked to one side, his mouth in a slight smile that could be taken either way, his eyes a question. Someone catching it wasn't one of the outcomes he expected.

"You didn't really want it to break, did you?" Ahlia asked, in a tiny voice. The picture and the dragonflies—the four of them nestled contentedly together, enjoying a tranquil moment in life—made Ahlia think of her family, the wetland opus too lovely a thing to see destroyed.

With carefully measured steps, Willy slowly crossed the space between them, gently taking the piece from her hands, turning it cautiously over in his. "Into a thousand pieces, actually. But I think I made it too thick," he said thoughtfully. "It should have broken, even with you catching it."

"I'm glad it didn't," Ahlia said, breathlessly. "May I keep it?"

Willy bowed, ceremoniously handing it back to her. "You may. You helped make it. I don't dislike it, but it will never do." Willy was already on his way to the door. "The person it's intended for doesn't have a proper window to hang it in. I don't know what I was thinking, except to say that I wasn't." There was a pause, and then a very silky voice, as he stopped. "Neither were you, Ahlia. That piece might have broken, and cut you, when you caught it."

Ahlia looked contrite, lowering her head.

By now, Willy had exchanged the long, dark lab coat for his colorful frock coat, and was reaching for his hat and cane. Checking Ahlia's reaction with a sideways glance, Willy, content he'd made his point, dropped the subject in favor of the first one. He turned to face the other little faces, emerging to join Ahlia. "Georgina will need something altogether different," he said, brightly, "so I'm off to the drawing board. Knock off for the day. Same time tomorrow, all." With a carelessly jaunty wave of his hand, Willy was gone, a 'toodle-oo' echoing down the corridor after him.

Ahlia carefully hugged the stained glass confection to herself, overjoyed, the others crowding around, admiring her courage as much as the creation she held.


	30. The Investigation Begins

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But_ I_ do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Summer is a busy time, but three days off in the last fifteen is not conducive to timely updates! Thank you for your patience in this regard, and thank you __**dionne** **dance**, and **Squirrela**, for your very welcome and appreciated reviews!  
_

* * *

Monday, week two, found Terence bored senseless. It's one thing to wait to see if Willy is going to emerge from that fortress factory of his; Terence could, and had, waited months for that, but now it was a done deed, not seeing Willy made the world deadly dull. Seriously. How many people did Terence know, who owned a flying glass elevator? Or lived in a gigantic chocolate factory, complete with chocolate river? That he _still_ hadn't seen. None, that's how many. In a rare display of pique, Terence threw down the pencil he held, on the crossword puzzle he was pretending to do, the desultory pursuit his latest feeble attempt to kill time.

Terence thought about the Square-Candy-That-Looks-Round Willy had sent, sorry now that he'd eaten it. He'd eaten it, because too many people were in and out of the shop to leave something as unusual as that lying around. God knows, he'd probably misplace the thing, and then what? It was clear to Terence now, that Willy was selling his unique equivalent of plain vanilla—darned good plain vanilla—to the world, and keeping the best stuff for himself, and his workers. And his friends? Terence nodded to himself. If the world found out Willy was holding out, that factory didn't stand a chance. Terence still had the bouquet, but he'd moved that to his flat, where he thought it would be safer. Folks admiring it thought it glazed, frosted glass, but still, you never knew.

Terence smiled, remembering the flavor of the Square candy. It was darn awesome, indescribably so, with the satisfying texture both crunchy and gooey; but sneaking up on it would have killed hours and hours, honing a skill a spy should have. Wasn't that what he was? A spy? Willy thought so, and the government said so, but that wasn't quite right, as far as it concerned Terence. He was, a retired mind you, reconnaissance expert; not _exactly_ the same thing. So why not amuse himself, Terence decided—right now—with some reconnoitering. His thoughts turned to Martha Lee.

Mrs. Bucket had told him all about Martha, on Saturday. Martha, recently returned from l'Ecole Le Cordon Bleu, Paris, a hop, skip, and a jump from her mother, Claire's, alma mater, La Sorbonne, had opened her own restaurant, L'usine—which meant, ha, ha, 'The Factory'—in this town, helped by no less than Mr. Willy Wonka, himself, because, and this impressed Terence, Willy was good friends with Martha's grandfather. Those facts begged a lot of questions: Who was Martha's grandfather? How did he know Willy? Where was this grandfather now?

Terence sat back, retrieving the stubby pencil, flipping it along the fingers of one hand, with the fingers of that hand, as he thought about it. He didn't start with Martha. Terence knew why she was here. The more germane question was, why was Willy here? Having left, Willy had no real reason to return. But he had. Why? It sure wasn't because of dear old Dad. The evidence that rift was alive and well was inescapable. If anything, that rift was a compelling reason for Willy _not_ to return. So much for that line of thought.

Next line of thought: What did Willy do when he got back? He opened a candy shop, on Cherry Street. Gramps—that's what Mrs. Bucket, nope, Nora, said Martha called him—probably helped with that, and _that's_ why they're friends. Terence was getting somewhere. Gramps is probably a banker; or maybe a landlord. Terence shifted the pencil to his other hand, continuing the exercise. No, probably not a banker. Willy could find bankers anywhere, in any town. Probably not the landlord, either. You can find landlords anywhere, too. No, Willy probably came back here, because he knew _before_ he returned, Gramps would help him get started with the shop. Which means Willy and Gramps were friends _before_ Willy left.

Terence sat up, putting the pencil down. Terence didn't recollect anyone remotely like a Gramps in Willy's life then, which could only mean Gramps came on the scene _after_ Terence left. Before the house moved? That had only been a few weeks. After? How long had Willy stayed in town after that? The locals hadn't been clear on that, when Terence heard the story, on his arrival back in town. Time to find out. Heedless for now, that he needed to make some changes if he intended this shop to survive, Terence grabbed his coat, and headed for the door.

* * *

The only place Terence knew, for sure, Willy was, after Terence left, was the school, but he also knew the school wasn't going to give him any information—unless you had credentials, or a better sob story then Terence could make up on short notice like this, they never did—so Terence went to the one place, in any town, that will tell you all you ever want to know, about anyone the victim of a newsworthy event, anytime at all—the local newspaper. The trick was, you had to find it yourself, usually in a mountain of microfiche, and the process was time-consuming.

But killing time was the raison d'être for this little exercise, so having ensconced himself in the newspaper's morgue, Terence surprised himself by how little time it actually took. He started with the Wonka house disappearance, finding barely a mention—mostly complaining neighbors, moaning about zoning issues, and untidiness. Left-over kid. No mention. Runaways. Willy's name not among them. Child services. Big zero. Graduations. Aha! Four years later, part of the caption, under a photo: Not pictured: Willy Wonka. Willy had graduated early, but he'd been in this town, all that time, without causing a single ripple, which was no small feat. Whatever had happened, had happened immediately, which meant whatever it was, it was close to home: Willy's home. That was the clue Terence was looking for, and having found all he needed, Terence was on his way.

* * *

Terence knocked briskly on the door, and waited. He was still waiting, when he heard the welcome sound of a walking stick, tapping rhythmically toward him, on the pavement below him. Turning with a smile, Terence expected to see… not the person he saw.

The elderly gentleman he did see, smiled. "Mr. James, good day. Sorry to disappoint, I know I'm not who you were hoping to see, but I do say, Willy sends you his regards. Won't you come in?" The man climbed the steps and moved past Terence, unlocking his door, and gesturing Terence inside.

"Thank you, don't mind if I do. You are the person I was hoping to find," replied Terence, reflecting that he hadn't told this man his last name, the last time, but this man maddeningly knew what it was; the maddening work, no doubt, of a certain Chocolatier. "As for regards—" Terence added, his tone clipped, "tell 'im, right back at 'im. Is he well?" Terence didn't need telling he'd found 'Gramps'. Martha's mysterious grandfather was the man in the house across, and down the street from the Wonka house; the man he'd talked to on that Saturday, when he'd discovered the Wonka house gone; the man who had sounded so proud of Willy, but who claimed, then, to know so little about what happened to him. Terence could understand that—it wasn't a tidbit for every curious, passing stranger.

"Yes... I think so, seems like it, hard to tell," the man replied, with some hemming and hawing, "we don't speak very often, but he said I should keep you entertained, if you turned up." The gentleman took off his coat, and his fedora, hanging the one on a wooden coat rack by the door, putting the other, with his keys, on the table next to it, leaning his walking stick beside that. He gestured to the armchair Terence used on that earlier day. "Have a seat. We'll call that your spot. Let me take your coat. Some tea? Wonderful." The gentleman moved to the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil. "I saw you on Friday," he said, re-entering the room, "and called out, but you didn't hear me."

Terence lowered his head, his face growing red. He wasn't proud of his actions on Friday, and didn't want the reminder, even from someone who knew nothing about them.

The man chuckled. "That train station… it has a lot of pull. Engines, you know." The old man sent a mischievous wink Terence's way. "That's why he didn't make you the liaison. Plus Martha knows scads more about food handling than you do. But Willy is a big believer in free will. He wanted you free to use yours, if you wanted to, and he expected you'd want to."

"Willy knows about that?" Terence was still standing.

"Precious little happens in this town, that has to do with him—and even that doesn't—that Willy doesn't know about. You made him very happy, by the by, coming back. That was something he didn't expect."

"Then I surprised him." Peeved, Terence plunked down in the chair. "Good for me." Terence didn't like being anticipated, especially if the person doing the anticipating had it nailed. "What does Willy think he's up to now, anyway? This waiting around is driving everyone crazy!"

More the tone, and less the comment, but ultimately both, tickled the old gentleman with laughter, tears appearing in the corners of his eyes. "I think I'm going to like you. You've been here five minutes, haven't asked me a thing beyond what's polite, and then ask me what's going on in Willy's head, something both of us know, there's no way of knowing."

The old man was right, and Terence joined in the laughter, until the kettle interrupted them with a singing laughter of its own. Together, they moved into the kitchen, Terence helping with the tea, and when it was ready, they both gravitated to the homey little kitchen table, and sat down.

Terence used his mug to warm his hands, before taking a sip. Putting the mug down, he said, "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

The old gentleman's answer was crisp and immediate. "That's not what you want to know. You want to know how I know Willy, how Willy knows me, why Willy's helping my grand-daughter, and a hundred other things, and I can tell you, it's all because of you… No, no, don't look so incredulous, you were the first fly in Dr. Wonka's ointment, but I'll give you a choice of names, and you can pick the one you want to use, because conversation flows so much more easily when you can get someone's attention without having to say, 'hey, you!' or snap your fingers, or some-such, don't you agree?"

Terence could only nod.

"Righty-o, then, Willy refers to me as 'The Liberator' or, more often, and he thinks I don't know this, 'Libby', but when he lived here he called me 'Sinclair', because 'Dr. Grant' was too formal, and familial appellations are a non-starter with Willy, as you know, aside from the fact we're not related. My name is Dr. Sinclair Grant, D.D.S., retired. The first thing I did, the evening my wife brought Willy home, was take off those wretched braces. The appreciation was instant, and has lasted." Dr. Grant added softly, "I never did like Dr. Wonka, or his work, and my wife liked him even less." With that, the flow of words ceased, Dr. Grant leaning back in his chair, to give Terence a chance to catch his breath, and recover from the sea of information washing over him. "Pick any point," said Dr. Grant, magnanimously, "and I'll elaborate."

Terence managed three words. "Lived here? How…"

"…Did we stop Dr. Wonka from taking him back?"

Terence nodded. He'd been about to say 'long', but the answer to this question, one of the hundred Dr. Grant mentioned earlier, would do just as well.

"You'll have to thank my wife for that," and with those words, Dr. Grant's entire demeanor changed—from crisp and slightly off-hand, to gentle, with more than a trace of sadness. His voice slowed, and deepened, as he continued, "we moved here a few months before you arrived. I do remember you; you were over at Willy's a couple of times, notable for the rarity, I must say, but I didn't put two and two together that Saturday you stopped by last fall. You've grown up," he explained wistfully, "and you introduced yourself as Terence. I remember hearing Dr. Wonka call you Terry."

"Only Willy called me Terence."

Dr. Grant nodded. "My wife's name was Cynthia. We liked this block because most everyone living on it was older, like us; more Dr. Wonka's age. Quiet, you know. Our daughter, Claire, was already away at college, in France, and Cyn used to wonder how frumpy old Dr. Wonka came by such a young child. It was absolutely none of our business, no quarrel there, but there was no sign of a mother, and Cyn, with her vivid imagination, couldn't resist making up all sorts of nefarious stories about the evil Dr. Wonka. She said the braces alone proved Dr. Wonka was an unfit father, and an ogre, and Willy was secretly in desperate need of rescuing. Cyn liked doing that." He smiled fondly. "Both I mean—making up stories, and cooking up rescues. She was always rescuing something, or someone, usually at work. She was a lawyer." He lifted a hand from the table in a half-hearted wave. "She used to laugh, and say that was code... for shark, you see, but as sweet as she was, God bless her, Cyn _was_ no one to mess with. She worked for the Community Legal Aid Association, and her cases varied, but contract and business law were her specialties." Dr. Grant gazed at a point in the past, as his voice trailed off. In a moment, he looked up. "I'm afraid I've strayed from the point."

"That's fine," answered Terence, kindly. "I'm in no hurry."

"The point is, Cyn took a real shine to Willy, but they never talked, or even met—let's face it, between you and me, Dr. Wonka practically had a force field around that kid—until the evening she came walking home, and found Willy standing on the sidewalk, backpack at his feet, staring at the hole where his house had been. She told me later she came up behind him, and stood quietly, until he noticed her. When he did, she held out her hand. 'Time to come home now, dear heart, and get those braces off', she said quietly. The breath that escaped his lips was too soft for a sigh, but he took her hand. The friendship was instant, and lasted until she died."

A thoughtful silence filled the room.

"I've strayed from the point again."

"Never mind," said Terence, and they sat for the next few minutes, ostensibly drinking tea.

* * *

"The point is, Dr. Wonka didn't even try to find out what happened to Willy, for over a week." Dr. Grant was ready to continue. "I don't know what the old boy expected. A frightened phone call in the middle of the night? A knock on the door from the authorities, with Willy in tow? Plans can have more than one outcome; some of them unexpected. Did I mention Cyn was a lawyer?"

Terence let the other questions wash over him, but Dr. Grant seemed to want this one answered. "You did."

"Of course I did. One thing a lawyer knows—the authorities only get interested if there's trouble. No trouble, no authorities."

"So how did you keep Dr. Wonka from making trouble?"

"Ah, yes, that is where I'm trying to go with this isn't it? Long story short, Dr. Wonka showed up at the school, but Willy ducked him, and went down to Cyn's office. She sent him home," Dr. Grant's left index finger pointed to the floor, his hand rocking gently up and down to indicate this home, "and she went up to the school. The interesting thing was, Dr. Wonka hadn't gone to the office," Dr. Grant raised his arms in a scary gesture, his voice a match, "he was lurking around the grounds." Lowering his arms, his voice returned to normal, and he went on more composedly. "It gave Cyn the idea Dr. Wonka wasn't interested in involving the authorities any more than she was, so she introduced herself as the authority taking over Willy's upbringing. If Dr. Wonka made any trouble about that, she'd take the trouble to file a child-abuse suit against him starting with Exhibit A, the braces, moving on to Exhibit B, a vacant lot instead of a house, and Exhibit C, desertion. Well, desertion isn't really an Exhibit, but you get my drift. Cyn had a good case. I took off the braces, and I can tell you, Willy's teeth had been straight for months—there was no teeth straightening need to keep those braces on—and that house! You don't pull off a stunt like that in one day. No, siree. That takes mighty serious planning afore thought. It doesn't take a genius to figure out Dr. Wonka anticipated a day of rebellion, and even fewer brains to figure out he planned to smash his own son's spirit to smithereens, in one fell swoop." An incredulous look stole over Dr. Grant's face. "Dr. Wonka must have worked for months, maybe years, to detach that house, just waiting for the day to come, and carry out his coup de grâce: picking up and moving the whole shebang."

"It was a stunning move," agreed Terence, "on a lot of levels."

"Devastating," agreed Dr. Grant. "You know what that plan needed to work? I say, aside from a lot of heavy equipment, available at a moment's notice..." Dr. Grant leaned forward intently, but quickly answered his own question. "No friends." Slapping his hand mildly on the table, Dr. Grant sat back. "Remember I said you were the first fly in the ointment?"

"Umm..."

"Don't 'umm', you remember perfectly well I said you were... Now you've got that look on your face again, it's not all so weighty as you think—people find their path—if not you, it'd be someone else, or something else, eventually, but it _was_ you, then, and I'll tell you how. Do you know what it's like for very young children? No, don't answer, I'll tell you. They believe everything their parents tell them—because what do they know? And what choice do they have? Because the assumption is, your parents are on your side—even when they're not. Dr. Wonka told Willy, over and over, he was the only friend Willy would ever have, so Willy better do _exactly_ as his Dad said, or else... no friends, or worse, no _one_, at all. And Dr. Wonka arranged things to make what he said true, didn't he? I don't know what Dr. Wonka did before the braces, something I don't want to know, I'm sure, but those braces made Willy a freak, so as far as Willy knew, Dad was right.  
And then you came along. And made friends. The thing Dad said would NEVER happen. So for the first time, in that constricted world Dr. Wonka made, and Willy lived in, Dad was wrong. It cast everything Willy believed in a new light. Dad was not pleased; told Willy you couldn't be trusted; said you'd let him down. And Dr. Wonka did everything he could to get Willy to stop helping you. Willy ever say anything to you about that?"

"No... never. But we did stop going to his place, in short order." Terence shrugged his shoulders. "Which was fine by me. Dr. Wonka was a scary old guy." Terence thought a minute. Dr. Wonka and Dr. Grant were about the same age. "No offense."

Dr. Granted chuckled in the back of his throat. "None taken. I thought so, too, and I was his age. Anyway, that's why Willy stopped taking you there. But Willy didn't give it up, it made him happy to do it, and he's tenacious; so the damage was done. If Dad was wrong about friends, Dad could be wrong about other things. Willy tried candy. It was sweet, and good. Nothing like his life at the time, but he could bring that sweetness into it. And Willy being Willy, it wasn't long before he was into research, and deciding he could make better tasting candy than the stuff he was eating. Shortly after that, you left. That overjoyed Dr. Wonka. Willy had no friends again, and everything was back on track."

"Except it wasn't," said Terence.

"No, it wasn't." Dr. Grant was somber. "One of Cyn's favorite lawyer phrases: You can't un-ring a bell. Willy wasn't going to give up the candy, and Willy had friends. Friends Willy, and Dr. Wonka, didn't even know about. Cyn for one."

"And you."

Dr. Grant took a sip of his tea, making a face as he peered into the mug. "And me. Do you know, of all the talents Willy has, I think that's his best one."

"What?"

"He always finds a friend... or they find him... when he needs one."

Terence didn't know a lot of the details of Willy's life, but it did seem true. The Grants found Willy, when Willy needed a home; Willy found the Oompa-Loompas, after the town let him down, and if he'd get out of his own way, about people and the past, Terence believed Willy had found, in Charlie, the apprentice he was looking for.


	31. The Investigation Continues

_Disclaimer: I **am not** one of the lucky copyright holders of **Charlie and the Chocolate Factory **in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But_ I_ do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining._

_Angst in this, but a timely update. My continued thanks to you, __**dionne** **dance**, and you, **Squirrela**, for your always welcome and appreciated reviews._

* * *

"This tea is cold. Is yours? Of course it is. Let me warm it up."

Shifting in his chair, Terence watched Dr. Grant take the mugs over to the microwave. "Should you be telling me all this?"

"Perfectly alright my boy, perfectly alright, don't mind, a'tall, and neither does anyone else... be disappointed if I didn't, actually." Dr. Grant leaned against the work top, while he waited for the tea to reheat. "Willy asked me, if you chanced to drop by, to tell you 'dark stories of the North', so I am."

"Dark stories of the North? Sounds like a riddle."

"Not much of one, if you know the reference. Shorthand, really. It's part of a line from _Phantom of the Opera_. What's happening when it's said: Two people, who knew each other as children, meet again, and reminisce about the past. Willy used the 'dark stories' phrase. It's Willy's way of saying fill you in."

Terence frowned. The explanation seemed a stretch, even for Willy.

Dr. Grant shook his head with mock sadness. "You keep making faces, Mr. James. No, there's another one... alright, alright," Dr. Grant was laughing now, "I'll call you Terence, but getting back to the point," he was serious again, "Willy does that sort of thing all the time." Dr. Grant brought the mugs back to the table. "He did it during that bizarre February first tour he held. Used lyrics from a song from _Hair _to say 'Good morning, hello'. I read about it. Silly fools didn't know enough to drop the out-of-context words; thought he was crazy, but that song was a perfect choice. Willy quoted the first two lines of the first verse. If they hadn't been clueless, they'd have quoted the first two lines of the second verse back to him: 'Good morning star shine, You lead us along'. It was a tour after all, and he was leading them. Simple... but none of them got it; takes a certain type. Not a very auspicious start, I'm afraid. I'll bet it gave Willy second thoughts about having the tour at all."

"It did, and he did, but he survived," remarked Terence, dryly. "Can't say the same for the batch of chocolate," Terence added, remembering the smell.

Dr. Grant laughed. "Well, Dr. Wonka, with his second thoughts, survived, too," he said, continuing his story. "Dr. Wonka wasn't much impressed by Cyn's case. They went back and forth a bit—he claimed kidnapping, she countered with protective custody, he claimed Willy unruly, she countered with Wonka unfit, he claimed Willy careless, she countered with Wonka compassionless, that sort of thing. Cyn got kind of fierce about it—told him if some workable arrangement couldn't be reached, she knew where all the bodies were buried, and she'd dig 'em all up, if they wound up in court. She meant it figuratively, but she said to see the way Dr. Wonka reacted, he took it literally." Dr. Grant shrugged. "Whatever he thought, that was the end of Dr. Wonka's opposition."

"A little flurry of concern for show, and then drop it?"

"Like a stone thrown in a pond: Big splash, little ripple, then nothing. That week with us was a completely different world for Willy. He wouldn't have gone back, even if he didn't stay with us. Maybe Dr. Wonka realized that. In the end, it was an almost amicable arrangement, though Willy never would agree to see him. Any papers needed signing, legal guardian falderal, that nonsense, you know, we'd send 'em over, Dr. Wonka'd send 'em back, all nicely signed, no muss, no fuss." Dr. Grant paused to consider. "Dr. Wonka did ask for one thing, though, that Willy did agree to."

Terence raised a brow.

"Dr. Wonka wanted a photo of Willy, on his birthday." Dr. Grant was quiet. "We didn't send one that year. Willy had already had his birthday; but we honored the request, and sent one on his next birthday."

Quiet filled the kitchen, but not for long. Dr. Grant was eager to move on. "It was a happy three and a half years," he said. "But you should understand the dynamics, and the names do that. You already know I called Cynthia, 'Cyn', and I say, she called me 'Sin', short for Sinclair, right enough. Willy would have called us the same, but he said that was too much 'sin' in the house, and although it was easy for the two of us to know who we meant, it would be confusing to know who he meant, spelling being hard to see when you're talking. And Cyn and I were a big case of opposites attracting, so Willy thought it very funny that what we called each other sounded the same.  
Cyn and Willy, however, were two peas in a pod, so Cyn loved that Willy called her 'Thea', because between me and Willy, she'd say, we had 'Cynthia', even if the spelling wasn't right." Dr. Granted sighed. "Those two were like that—always playing with words. I'd be sitting in front of the telly, watching some action-adventure, fun, but what they considered brain-dead, anything, and they'd be curled up with _War and Peace_, making up another fifteen names for a character who already had fifteen names, or playing 'infinity alliteration', or 'infinity phrase', or some other word goofy some-such, pleased as ticks on a deer."

"Willy does like words, and books," offered Terence, imaging pleased ticks on a deer.

"Not too fond of the telly, though," affirmed Dr. Grant. "Was always after me to join them; Willy believes the telly turns your mind to mush. I didn't have the heart to tell him, after a stressful day at work, that's exactly what I was hoping for." Dr. Grant was rueful. "Everyone hates The Dentist."

Terence laughed at how forlorn Dr. Grant sounded. "It's not the dentist they hate. It's having to go."

"One of the big changes at this house, I might add," said Dr. Grant, more cheerfully. "Not going to the dentist more often, but the meals here—huge improvement! Cyn and I usually opted for take-out, or our other cutting edge specialty, re-heating frozen dinners. But Willy! Um-um! That boy could cook! And insisted on it! No wonder Dr. Wonka wanted to hang on to him." Dr. Grant gave Terence a wink. "Dr. Wonka missed the boat, not allowing Willy any sweets. It was poor Cyn and I who suffered through Willy's dessert learning curve."

Dr. Grant put a hangdog look on his face, but Terence laughed again, not fooled in the least.

Dr. Grant smiled. "You're right. I'm a dentist, and I'd go through it all over again, in a heartbeat. Willy didn't like the fat effect of lots of sugar, so he went for mega-flavor in minuscule portions. I didn't have to warn him about cavities, he'd had an earful of that all his life, and though he refused to floss for some reason, he was a fiend with brushing, and a Waterpik®."

"I'll bet he had a lot more friends," said Terence, changing the subject.

"A bet you'd lose, I'm afraid," came Dr. Grant's laconic reply. "Willy loved the change in his life, and he was devoted to Cynthia. His father re-appearing niggled at him, but his big fear was meddling outsiders, interfering with the arrangement—unconventional, you know, so if anything, he was more solitary than ever." Dr. Grant pursed his lips. "He's solitary by nature, so it was easy for him, and he's got that talent."

Terence cocked his head.

"Don't pretend you don't know—surrounded by people, perfectly friendly, completely superficial."

Terence nodded. He did know, very glad it wasn't from firsthand experience, but Grandpa Joe had made the same observation.

"That's better. Willy kept everyone at arm's length, at a minimum. Cyn and I both thought he was being silly, but you weren't going to convince Willy of that, with the help of stampeding horses, in a month of Sundays."

Terence raised an eyebrow, as he tucked the image of stampeding horses away in his head, next to the happy ticks, his brain circling back to a phrase Dr. Grant had said earlier. "Did you say he was devoted to Cynthia?"

"That's what I said. And she to him. You know," Dr. Grant waved a hand in the air, "the son she never had, the mother he never had." Pausing, his hand dropping to the table, Dr. Grant traveled back to the past. "The only things that kept those two apart, were _his_ school, and _her_ work, and the work only went so far. After school, Willy would head down to her office, and help out. At first, her colleagues thought her daft, but Willy was a bright, inquisitive kid, even if reserved, and over the years, Cyn taught him all she knew about business law and businesses; setting 'em up, contracts, that rot, and most else of what she knew, which, I can tell you, was a lot. Cyn had the last laugh, too—toward the end, everyone down there wanted Willy researching for them; Cyn even had him writing briefs."

Terence wasn't thinking about the law office. He was thinking about the devotion. "But, he's so aloof... I thought..."

"That no one ever loved him?" Dr. Grant snapped, reading the thought, so plain on Terence's face. "That he never loved anyone?"

Startled, Terence couldn't find the words to answer, and Dr. Grant looked disgusted. "Of course someone loved him. Of course he loved someone. Have you not tasted the candy? Do you think those inspirations, those flavors, come from someone empty of feeling—icy, or hollow, or worse, ignorant?" Dr. Grant's voice was sharp. "Don't be a fool! It's quite the opposite."

"But..."

"How does he do it?" Dr. Grant was still snappish with impatience. "He does it the way everyone whose lost someone they love does it—he sucks it up—excuse me, I dare say that's blunt—and carries on. He's not the first, he's not the last, and he's not alone in the situation."

"I'm..."

Dr. Grant ducked his head, as his hand flipped up indignantly, to interrupt. "Please don't say you're sorry. Spare me that. Everyday I wake up, and take another breath, I miss her, and some days, at my age, I wish that breath hadn't come, so I'd be with her again. Willy misses her, too, but he deals with it differently." Dr. Grant managed a smile, and his voice softened. "Sometimes, I swear she's alive in his head. Truth be told, I think that's what I like about him the best. And I like to think, wherever she is, Cyn misses us, too. But I'm not sorry. We expressed our love for her differently, but we loved her all the same, and it was a wonderful time.  
Did I tell you opposites attract? That worked for Cyn and me, but not for Willy and me. Darling Cyn—with her daring audacity! If it weren't for her, I'd never have met anyone like Willy, and if I had, I'd have passed him by, and pleased to do it, not knowing how to appreciate him." Suddenly, Dr. Grant was laughing softly, thinking of pesky, random, crack-of-dawn phone calls; not very often, but often enough, and usually before even the chickens were up. "I say, I probably still don't," he said, as his gentle laughter allowed, "but I'd miss him if he wasn't there." Regaining his composure, Dr. Grant studied Terence. "Case in point—I've met you—and as you're Willy's friend, I consider you a new friend, too, as I hope you'll consider me. Hard to make those, at my age."

Dr. Grant rose from the table. "I'm feeling cooped-up now." Picking up the empty mugs, he put them in the sink, and ran some water into them. "Let's take a walk. We'll go visit Cyn, and I'll tell you what happened."

* * *

"What happened was, a stroke. Cyn had a stroke."

As they began their trek, the overcast sky, making the town grey and drab, lent a fitting ambiance to the bleak history. With his long overcoat swinging gently to the rhythm of his steps, his walking stick tapping out their match, Dr. Grant spoke of the crisis clinically, in no hurry, as they ambled along. "First thing Willy did, he blamed himself. Blamed the food. But it wasn't the food, and Willy had nothing to do with it. Cyn's stroke was hemorrhagic, not ischemic, the kind caused by diet. Cyn had what they call an 'AVM'. You know what that is?"

Terence shook his head.

"Of course you don't. Why would you? An AVM is winning a lottery you don't want to play. It's two percent of hemorrhagic stokes, which are thirteen percent of all strokes, but it's the number one stroke to strike in the prime of life. Long story short, it's the alphabet soup way of saying, 'arteriovenous malformation'." Dr. Grant glanced at Terence, checking for comprehension, and finding it, continued. "It's congenital—an artery connected to a vein with no capillary buffer. It happens when the vein can't take the pressure of the artery anymore; it ruptures, and floods the brain with blood."

"Was it quick?" Terence hoped Cyn hadn't suffered.

"Quick?" Dr. Grant looked confused. "What do you mean? The rupture?" His face cleared. "Oh! My dear boy, you think... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mislead you, really, I'm very sorry. You think the stroke... No, no, the stroke didn't kill her. Willy took care of her, for months; he was wonderful, it was excellent. She was well on the way to recovery. No, dear boy, it was the pneumonia; the stroke made her susceptible, it was a late complication. We couldn't stop it. No one could."

Hearing the word, Terence felt a stab of pain. His own mother had died of pneumonia. Even understanding Cynthia wasn't Willy's mother, losing someone close, to that killer, was an awful and unexpected thing to have in common with him.

Dr. Grant, noticing Terence beside him, struggling with something of his own, reached forward with his walking stick, and chose to bring the conversation forward on a tangent. "By the by; don't try to keep bad news from Willy about people he loves. You may think you're sparing him now, but you're only sacrificing yourself, later. When he finds out, he'll hand you your head, on a platter." Dr. Grant's stick tapped the sidewalk purposefully. "Word to the wise."

Terence nodded. He was back from his visit to the past.

"The stroke happened at Cyn's office, in the morning," Dr. Grant continued. "She was lucky. Sharp people down there, they got her to hospital in no time. Very important. Willy didn't find out till after school. Not good. Wasn't much he could do during the acute phase, but Willy was sure the doctors were doing everything wrong, or should do something more, with the result he was underfoot, or flat in the way, depending on your point of view, and whether you liked him, or not." Dr. Grant frowned. "Order was restored when I suggested he research stroke. He did. Throughly. There's a great deal of rehabilitation involved in stroke. Cyn's was on her left side. Speech, language, math, perception, too many things to name—damaged, gone—maybe gone for good. Hard to know what you're going to get back. Willy insisted he was the one to handle the rehab."

"And he was."

"And he was. I didn't think so, at the time," was Dr. Grant's curt reply, "there are professionals for this, but I was wrong, and I've already said so. Cyn was in hospital for five days before she came home. Willy and I went over it every night before she did. He was very calm, his arguments carefully presented, all compellingly logical." Dr. Granted ticked them off. "Willy would do his schoolwork from home; between the two of us, Cyn would have someone 'round the clock. My practice would continue uninterrupted, ensuring a stable financial base. If it wasn't working, we would find a professional." Finishing the list, Dr. Grant sighed. "Willy wouldn't take no for an answer."

"He wore you down?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. It dawned on me it was useless to resist. Whatever I said, as soon as I turned my back, Willy'd do as he pleased. I'd send him to school, and he'd go, and be right back at home, as soon as I left for my office. He'd be the shadow of anyone I hired, and he'd either be doing the work himself-so why am I paying this person-or interfering to the point where I'd be hiring someone new every time I turned around. Why be Dr. Wonka? If Willy was set on doing it, why not let him try? Willy agreed he'd do it my way, if his way didn't work. It wasn't going to get any better than that."

Terence walked quietly.

"The first part was getting the school to buy into it, and that worked unexpectedly. It's probably the reason Willy still has anything at all to do with his father."

Terence couldn't stay quiet, his voice incredulous. "He does? His father? What?"

Dr. Grant's laugh was short, and bitter. "What you'd expect. He funds the man's retirement; with a revocable trust he set up and administers."

Baffled, Terence didn't see the connection, and said so.

"When Willy went to the administration office, and explained he required to work from home, they didn't give him papers for Dr. Wonka to sign, they way Willy expected, they called Dr. Wonka on the phone, then and there."

"Hmm."

"Hmm is right. In my mind's eye, I can still see Willy, standing impassively, thinking the jig was up, as the school people talked to his father. But then he heard them say, 'He's standing right here', and the next thing he knows, they've handed him the phone.  
'Is this what you want, Willy?' he says his father asked him.  
'Yes.'  
'Give them back the phone.'  
That was the entire conversation between them. He did, and his father fixed it all up. A lot of 'most irregulars' on Willy's end he says, but I'll wager the school recognized the same boat I was in, and being in it themselves, they went along with the inevitable."

They had reached the cemetery, and Dr. Grant growing quiet, moved slowly along the paths. With each step he took, Dr. Grant slowed the more, until finally, saying nothing, Terence placed a hand on Dr. Grant's arm. Dr. Grant stopped, and patted the hand absently. "I sometimes think," he softly said, "that if I go slowly enough, time will have the chance to change what I find at the end of this path. No headstone; no grave; just Cyn—just there, on the path behind me, caught by the corner of my eye, telling me to stop this foolishness, and join her, at home."

From the bare, uppermost branches of a nearby tree, a lone bird trilled a lilting song.

"I hate sentimentality. Such a useless pastime. Forgive me for imposing." Dropping his arm to free himself from Terence's hand, Dr. Grant briskly strode the rest of the way down the gravelled path.

Terence followed more slowly.

* * *

"So that _was_ the exotics I caught a whiff of on Friday. I thought so." Dr. Grant was sitting on a bench across from the grave, patting the place next to him to indicate Terence should sit as well.

Terence took a minute to look at the headstone. It was a simple grey, granite stela, modest and unpretentious, the grave tended beyond the expectations of the cemetery's routine custodianship. Terence read the name—Cynthia Giselle Grant, the bouquet of lilies of the valley, lying at the base of the stone, a splash of color, if not life.

"Willy doesn't usually make the exotics in such big batches." Dr. Grant patted the bench again. "Sit down. The recipe smells so good, he likes to hide that under the odors of other things he makes. But that was out the window Friday, wasn't it? Rather reckless of Willy, really. I wonder what he _is_ up to?"

"Now you're asking me?" asked, Terence pointing mockingly at his chest. "Charlie noticed what you're saying about the way the Factory smelled," Terence added, as he sat down. "He thinks it's good. I hope he's right, and I hope we find out what it is, and by that I mean, I hope _I_ get to see what it is. But those flowers are real."

Dr. Grant smiled. "You need to look closer. Most of them are; but tucked in among them... well, they don't last, I'm not surprised you didn't notice; the elements dissolve them, and there's almost nothing left already. Quid pro quo, though, you mentioned Charlie, and I want you to tell me all about him," he held up his hand as Terence frowned, "but not now. Now, I want to talk about energy. But before I do, let's sit here a minute, while I regain mine."


End file.
